An Anthology of Psychology

[DoV-gnilkrad]

I don't have a set word limit, or a base limit either. Some posts only come out to be one short paragraph. Others can go on forever. It depends on a lot of things, and I'm sure you know what that's like.
I try to write with a strong voice that goes with the character... and, as you might be able to tell from the samples... people get me to play The Bad Guys a LOT. So it seems like most of what I write is ... well, nefarious. Hope this is a good mix though.

These posts are unedited.
That means you'll probably find stupid spelling mistakes, typos, grammar mistakes and just the wrong word. I'm a good thinker. I'm just a s**t speller.
So there you have it.

[DoV-gnilkrad]

Scene: Ava was invading the mind of another person. They are just coming out of it now.
October 2010

Quote:

She took a few more steps to close the distance between them, holding out her hand palm up.
her heart raced with pride, with pleasure. With everything she'd done right.
Some people get a high from being on stage. Or from going into battle. From feeling the full moon coarse through their vein. From bathing in blood. From a few kisses that make them feel a little deviant, and a little daring. From watching the bugs squirm as you rip off their wings. Or casting the spell successfully that you've been working on for months.
Nothing compared.
For someone who strove to be sociopathic, who wanted to touch another's mind when her whole life was spent barely out of reach from it.... This manipulation was more intoxicating than the black magic that could raise the dead.
It was better than the first breath of air after being held under water for too long.
It was better than sitting on your knees, and begging the professor for an A past midnight the week of finals.
It was better than the smell of baobab and sulfur.
She had held Lunar's mind in hers. She had entered into another's world.
Ava had danced with the devil and lead.
She ruled the world.
"Let's get you home."

When Lunar took her hand, Ava pulled her in, leaning forward a little too much. The world around them started to go black, and her eyes open wide. In the split second before Lunar's mind faded from around them she made eye contact, "You can trust me. You need to trust me always."
She didn't want Lunar to be a slave to her. It ... it would cause more problems than good when someone noticed. But Ava had saved her life. Had given her a new view on things. Had gone into her mind [into hell] to drag her back out into the loving arms of people who cared.
What she wanted wad for Lunar to feel safe with her. For there to be an attachment.
For Lunar to Want to do what Ava asked - because Ava would never hurt her.
She wanted to be Lunar's hero.
Ava thought about the feeling of metal high on her neck. The collar she wore under her scarf. She thought about the pentagram that rested dead center under her chin. Small fake jewels dotting the corners and center.
There would be the feeling of falling in total darkness. A deafening sound, a door being slammed open and a violent screeching off key. The smell ink, cigarettes and rain. They would feel pinpoints of heat all over their 'skin' like they were surrounded by candles.
It was the framework of Ava's identity. The few memories she could always trust. The deepest thoughts and desires she didn't tell anyone about. They were the sensations that pulled her back into her body, all happening in a fraction of a second. Gone so fast one might not be sure they happened at all. It was fast and a mash of too many emotions but ....
They would always be Real. And Ava could always find them.

And they were back.
Back behind the barn, surrounded by rotting wood and the creeping forest. Past the and general debris. Further than all the bullets Kai's target practice left behind. To where the grass wasn't beaten to death from various spars and the ground hadn't been hardened from old blood. Back into the silence away from the noise of fights and squeals of joy, or piano. Where only the bugs hummed and chirped. Back into The Now, when the weather was turning. Making Ava's nose run a little with the promise or rain and a cold.
Back into her circle, decorated with Kyuss' sword, and her cards, the flowers, the divination rocks and puzzle piece charms.
The energy that had gathered into the circle heated them almost painfully.
Ava had a splitting head ache.
Her eyes opened just as wide as they had been in Lunar's mind, her lips moving silently halfway through name.
The little adventure had taken A Lot of her magic. Becoming aware of her physical body she found it stiff from straddling Lunar. Her stomach was cramping from hunger, and with the weight of her mind back in her Ava couldn't take it. She was too weak. She was too hungry and tired, and worn out.
She rolled off Lunar, throwing a hand out over the line of the circle and it popped. Another wave of energy as everything caused from them released from its container back into the world. Goosebumps sprang over Ava as the energy left her, and she closed her eyes. All she could see was the dark gray purple of the sky with patches of blue to match.
"Merlin's beard!" She complained half heartedly, raising her arm over her eyes so that the crock of her elbow covered her face.
It was more energy than she had ever used before.
It felt like she'd just spent a week at the gym. Minus the endorphins.

Word Count: 846


Scene: After Ava came out of this other person's mind, a Warden was standing over her. A supernatrual police officer - the Wardens have a vicious reputation and Ava knew she broke the Third Law of Magic. That's punishable by death. But instead the Warden put on a pair of ... special cuffs. made of thorns from Fey, it stops magic. If you try to use your magic it hurts like a mother ********. The harder you try, the more it hurts.
October 2010

Quote:

As Ava tried to rip at the thorn manacles they bit into her fingers. Blood was smeared over her sheets and cloths from yesterday, already grass and dirt stained. She was crying, eyes wide. Tears slicked her skin always down to her shirt, leaving marks on her blankets. Heaves wracked her body in gasps for breath through clenched teeth.
"Take them off!" She begged, "I'm sorry! Take them off, I'll never do anything again! I'll never hurt anyone, I'll never even soul gaze someone! Just get them off, for the love of God! I can't find it, I can't find my magic! Get them OFF!"
Someone without a spark of magic could never understand. It was your identity.
Magic wasn't some trick to show off. It wasn't like the latest iPod. It wasn't part of who you are the way a few memories are, the way your favorite song it. You don't change it like you can hair color.
Its deeper then genetics. Stronger then blood.
It is to engrained into a mage's sense of self that depriving them of magic is to fundamentally change their identity. It applies to all mages.
Double for Ava. Double for anyone raised around it.
She never had many friends. She never felt loved, she never belonged. When Ava felt empty and alone it was her magic that kept her from depression. When she was lost she need only find the magic. When she was unsure there was always that faith.
Faith in .... anything. Without it Magic could not work.
Even before her powers developed she was preparing. There wasn't a memory in her mind that wasn't strung with energy. There wasn't a thought she had that couldn't be traced back to ritual. There wasn't a feeling she'd known that wasn't caused by this fact of life.
As she struggled to pull the thorny bracelet off her world crashed down around her. Ava couldn't even call up the senses to block the pain. When she realized what the bracelets were doing she had stopped trying to fight it and stated looking for what they took form her.
Warden Elle denied Ava everything when she put the chains on her, and that wasn't fair. Desperately Ava tried to launch herself into her own mind. The way she had when she pulled Lunar out of the coma. She tried to think a door being slammed open and a violin screeching off key. The of smell ink, cigarettes and rain . Pinpoints of heat all over her, like she was surrounded by candles. She tried to turn herself inward to look for the magic, to chase it. To block out the pain. To remind herself of what was real.
To know she existed.
Who she was.
What she was.
And why.
And she COULDN'T.
Rage mingled with the fear and panic. Physical pain took a back seat as her body went into shock. At least, shock was all Ava could understand it as. She couldn't find her power to fight it, and not being able to find it, she couldn't fight. With not fight the thorns loosened, and the freezing in her veins eased. She couldn't feel her hands or feet. She couldn't feel anything. It was like every inch was numb.
Elle did this. The Wardens did this.
Ava buried her face in her pillow and screamed, swearing to herself she would kill them. Every last one of them.

It felt like hours to her. It was probably seconds to the rest of the world, but she stopped screaming in pain. Rolled tightly into the featly position with her hands between her knees. She still sobbed and tried to catch her breath. Whining only forming words every few breaths, "I can't find it. Take them off. Take them off, take them off. I'm sorry." The tears didn't stop.
Ava was humiliated, and scared, and totally alone. She wasn't sure Why she was sorry. She wasn't empathetic to the fear of mind mages. She didn't care if she came within a breath of Lunar being her slave. She didn't care if Lunar lived or died. She wasn't sorry she broke the law or wanted to do bad things.
But she would repent for her sins. Just tell her what to apologize for. She'll be good.
She'd give up everything for her magic again.
She'd tell the Wardens everything she knew about Crow. About the rituals she'd studied in her evil little text books. She'd stop thinking about Edward Velvet and Rune Vaduva. She'd go back home to her family, who must he worried sick. She'd finish school and practice healing, or making things like those bracelets. She'd be good.
She'd be good for the rest of her life, just for her magic.
Just to Know where her magic was.

Word count: 803

These are both ... some of my favorites. I had a lot of fun writing these

[DoV-gnilkrad]

Scene: A historical Fiction. Very.. fiction. Ireland is split by a civil war, half loyal to the English that recently annexed them, the other half loyal to their heritage. England, taking profit in the war, was fueling it, and taking rebels to sell into slavery. Their best customer was the French - who had brilliant technology and not much of a work ethic. Finn got nabbed and sold, and a month or so later runs into his old lover, who'd been a supporter of the English.
June 2012

Quote:

There were few things an Irishman could take more seriously than a promise. He'd been raised on bed time storied about the Fay, and notion that a man who didn't keep his word was no man at all stuck with him all his life. Honesty, integrity. They weren't things his father beat into him, but they were things he'd taken beatings for. And before his father died at the hands of an Englishman, Finnegan had made a promise. He would never stop fighting. Even with a knife pressed to his neck, he wouldn't utter a single word of submission. Even though he woke up in the mornings sore, stiff and feeling old, the fire of rebellion still shown in his eyes, bright and glorious. He would Never Stop Fighting.
It'd gotten him in to trouble right and proper. For a couple weeks there, things got gray. He couldn't keep his head straight, and when he wasn't feeling sorry for himself he was in a murderous rage. It didn't make him good company. And when Finn refused to listen to French, refused to sober up, refused everything but a fist to his mouth from any sort of employer, they sold him at the highest price they could con someone for an insubordinate slave. He'd been passed around like a plague since he was brought to France. And he prayed every night for a plague upon all that touched him.

The guards had seen the hate in him. Bitter, consuming and far too strong for a man who was given the power of a printing press. They called him Bog and his blood boiled. They asked if he'd be giving them any trouble, in thick accents he'd taken a month to come to understand. Finn spat in their face. He took the beating, and by the time he was marched inside, he hardly felt human. An eye was swollen shut. His skin was more black then white. They'd cracked a rib. He bleed on his collar, tips of his hair brushing against a cut. His lip was split. Tired, resilient and vindicated, Finnegan looked all of his thirty years. He'd seen better days. He'd never been terribly tall, an inch or three shorter than most guys. But he'd made up for that in compact muscles. What used to be a healthy frame had since wasted down to something pathetic and malnourished. The rough jaw line slimmed, the normally rugged nose broken a couple more times into an even more crooked shape. His dark brown hair was streaked above his ears with gray from the stress, growing shaggy to the nape of his neck. But his brown eyes never lost their luster.

He kept his head down as they traded him off to a girl, someone who'd been their longer and knew the ropes. He knew the drill. Shove the new guy off on another Paddy because no one could understand what the ******** the other nationality was saying. The soft hand at his hair wasn't normally part of the drill, though. It took him back, the softness and care in her voice. For a second his heart panged with homesickness, and Finnegan pulled his head away sharply. Flicking his hair back, where it fell back into his eyes just like it had for her. His face hardened before he raised his eyes to hers, ready to tell her to piss off. He didn't want the affections, she best not waist them on the likes of him. It wasn't that they weren't nice, it was just that nice was ill fitting the situation and anything other than rage would direct him from his mission. Don't get attached. It was a new rule he lived by. Soft hands and compassion could mess that up, with how desperately he needed them. Any slave needed them.
But the words died in his throat. His mouth opened, and all the came out was a soft "Eh?" of confusion. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and for an undeniable second, relief. Joy. 100 Memories of home. And with them, one last memory. The habitual smile hardened into a sneer and his heart skipped a beat. Before he could even get out her name, they were interrupted. Heartbreakingly.
He scowled at the young girl, brows furrowed. She was too young to be here. It wasn't right. And equally unjust, he'd become numb with a collection of sob stories from girls not too much older than the child tugging at Casidhe.
Casidhe....
Casidhe.....
When she looked back at him it wasn't friendship that greeted her. "Lookit wh're yer beloved English gotcha now." He hadn't known he could fit that much resentment into one sentence. Jaw pressed stubbornly. "Backstabb'd the backstab'r, eh? Are ya liken' the blood money now?" He struggled to keep his voice a sharp whisper, "Casidhe ó Broin, you foul traitor, may the cat eat you an' t'e div'l eat t'e cat."

The dull roar of the factory stopped for him and all he heard was the blood pounding in his ears.

Word Count: 842

[DoV-gnilkrad]

A setting post.
August 2012

Quote:

A heavy metal door groaned under its own weight as it was opened and closed. A chain rattled, and a heavy lock slid into place. Before he walked away, Kayde gave it a solid yank just to be sure, and pocketed the wrought iron key. It wasn't a conspicuous lock, but it would work. For anyone who did happen to cross it's path, it wouldn't look ... too.... out of place. Then again, who would be passing through here?


The city was alive. The Filigree didn't know it, and most of the cogs overlooked it. But it was. It had a soul of its own, a mood, a bloodlust, a facade of genteel, and at its core, a beating heart. Hephaestus was that beating heart. Named by one of those eccentric inventor types who probably did their hair by licking tesla coils, for the Greek God of the Forge. Ugly ********, but powerful. The investors just ate up the eccentricity. Kayde didn't know much about its history, and even less about how it worked. But it was fitting for its name sake.

It took up a whole block, a solid, grotesquely flat looking building. In South West London, right on the Themes, it sat almost directly on the water with tunnels crossing under it to harvest the river. The smokestacks towered up, casting shadows miles long. This area of the city was almost flat, one, or maybe two layers for blocks all around. No one wanted to build too close to it in case of the worst. It was a solitary feel. Against the skyline the building looked almost stately with those garish cathedral windows. Putting it on a pedestal would have been fitting: the singular icon of the Industrial Revolution. But having it stand to alone... with how much blood went into its foundation, and the number of people packed into the city thanks to this hulking power plant.
While its outer may look quiet and calm, the inside of the building screamed. It was in constant motion with a thousand mechanisms that thrashed and raged, and twice as many people who rushed about, yelling lost to the constant roar of activity. It was burning hot. Heat rose from iron grating on the floors from the coal rooms below, making hallways shimmer. And the steam made the air so thick in cooked the lungs.

No one noticed him coming in. Security was good enough, but The Power Plant was one of the best places for an immigrant to work. There were almost 4 million people in London according to the Census four years ago. In England there were three power plants and between the three of them they employed around 15,000 people. London's was the largest, of course. No education required, no skills required for the grunt work, very little English required. No one cared if you were a criminal so long as you had an able body. What's more, the average length of employment was about 7 years. The number of deaths made it a revolving door. No one knew the faces that worked here. No cared. He went in at a shift change, and snagged a hard hat on his way, and the only things people told him was he was needed on the C block.

It took longer than he wanted to find Isabelle. But he asked around for a girl mechanic and people caught on pretty quick. Apparently there wasn't that many. So they pointed him in the right direction and he was off. He paused under a sign and scoffed.

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
ＯＮ ＴＨＥ ＪＯＢ
ＳＡＦＥＴＹ ＢＥＧＩＮＳ ＨＥＲＥ
0004 ＤＡＹＳ
ＷＩＴＨ ＯＵＴ ＡＮ ＡＣＣＩＤＥＮＴ
═════════════════════════
0024 ＤＡＹＳ
ＴＯ ＯＵＲ ＲＥＣＯＲＤ
ＬＥＴＳ ＢＥＡＴ ＩＴ!
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛

Word count: 702

[DoV-gnilkrad]

Scene: I was playing a more modern adaptation of Frollo for a Dinsey RP. Here he is, being a creeper, wooing a victim.
October 2012

Quote:

Gritting his teeth, he waited for a response, thinking this wasn't enough. A scare was far too light of a punishment. It'd be so easy to do something more. Look at her, not a word. Who would she tell? Who would believe her? Cecelia saw shadows in daylight and monsters in every pew. She was scared of everything, everyone, and didn't even have a backbone enough to hide it. Meanwhile Clyde was well off, a judge, pious, charitable, and disciplined. He could do it. He could get away with it.
And Cecelia deserved it too. It'd been, what, eight years? Eight years. That skeleton in his closet had long since turned to dust. He made the mistake of trusting a Priest, a role model and teacher a long, long time ago. In his ambition and betrayal of The Church, he'd forgotten about the confession for some time. Assuming, obviously naively, that Father Solomon had forgotten as well. Eight years - and it could have been longer for all he knew. Maybe even ten. God, it had been so long ago. A youthful folly, it had to be! One mistake with one girl, and one person told. This wasn't habit, it wasn't him. He could tell Cecelia right now he'd sincerely confessed and grieved and changed and was healed. Who would tell her otherwise? The whores in Whitechaple?
What to do, what to do? Cover this up, or take the opportunity? Everything he'd worked for, or everything he desired?
Another test. Did the righteous ever get to rest?
When she looked away, the sneer turned into a smirk, and Clyde's heart fluttered. He felt light.
He'd been... so good in his vows. SO well behaved. Didn't he deserve a little treat?
He owned her. He pressed harder onto her throat, stomach twisting like a school boys with the thought she can't even breath without my permission.
No one was likely to believe he was nervous too. But he was. Clyde pushed the length of his body against hers, bowing over her to put his mouth close to her ear. With the height difference it was more like the crown of her head to her eyes were at his chest, and he was practically engulfing her. Gently he lifted his arm way from her throat, fingers trailing along where he hoped a bruise would form. "Must you tempt me so?" Down her shoulder, as he shuffled his feet closer, and wedged hers apart, purposefully ruining her balance, if only momentarily. And he leaned in more, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes. "What have I done to you, that you must torment me every time I come to Church?" Quick as a whip he grabbed a hold of her wrist, forcing it up just above her head and pinning her tightly to the wall.
"Cecelia," his voice came low and ragged. Every male has a version of this voice. He would sneer if someone else used it. It was ... vile and obscene. It was animal. And for most people the intention would be clear. Of course, Cecelia wasn't most people. And he liked the idea of her not understanding. Because.. in a weird.... Clyde... sort of way, this was a ... seduction. A game he was woefully unfamiliar with. Like anyone would be, he was scared of a rejection. She could deny him power over her. Pull away, spit in his face, mock this. She could wound his ego deeper then even Adelaide had. Please, God, don't let her pull away. He brushed his face against her fingers, like she was caressing his cheek bones and lips. "Don't you know the effect you have on me?"
He went to lick his lips, an absent minded habit of his, but misjudged it. His head was against the wall, nose and cheeks nuzzling her fingers, and eyes closed. So when he licked his lips, her fingers happened to be in the way. Honestly - he hadn't intended that, and his face burned. His whole body burned caught between an awkward embarrassment and vainglorious power trip. "I am a good man, Winters." His free hand went to her face, brushing along her cheek and tucking the wisps of hair into her habit. "And I have fought so long against it. What do you know about demons? Who are you to ask me about mine?" But his hand dipped down past her face again, stopping hesitantly at her collar bone. His fingers trembled, and the resolve he'd started with weakened. "I had it under control, then you come along. Drawing attention to the darkness again, feeding it. You caused this, after I'd rid myself of it." He leaned in harder against her, licking at her finger tip. This time deliberately. Biting down just enough for her to feel it. "You're no better than Tamar or Delilah."

Word Count: 811

[DoV-gnilkrad]

Scene: An elitist businessmen is at one of his highfalutin parties where they will announce marriage arrangements later in the night between his peers. Arrangements they are not privy too.
February 2013

Quote:

"If you'll excuse me," Lucian gave a winning smile, painfully fake, and small nod of his head to the Ms. of the Mr. and Ms. he was talking too, "it was a pleasure as always." He turned away and took a step back before Elijah could burst into the small group he'd been standing with. It wasn't that he was embarrassed by him--- yes, actually it was. It was exactly that. Lucian gave him a look up and down and gave him a slow blink.
Well. Lucian was white, in all black. And Elijah was black in all white. The exception on each being their tie. And they were standing next to each other. Shoulder to shoulder, because Elijah had no concept of personal space. .... Kill me now. "That's because I'm not, Elijah."The words came out a little too harsh, a little too annoyed. But it was true. And it was getting on her nerves everyone else was. "It's just a marriage contact. Unless I marry Ms. Sparks this will have no effect on my life at all." He sounded .. bored. Drawling out his words as he looked around to see if his sister had shown up yet. Habit more than anything. There. He saw her. Good.
At the nudge he took a step away but scoffed, "I'll try to make room for humility in my schedule." Lucian was the better fencer. Oh, he'd been beat by Elijah before, but only once or twice. Working off a little steam would do them both good, especially since Elijah had only just gotten in from .. where, Seattle? Portland? Maryland? He'd missed last week.
I'm freaking out Lucian reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving a light squeeze and whispering, "Calmly, Elijah. Calmly,"in the same voice he'd use in trying to coax a wild animal out from its hiding spot. He hated the term, but Elijah was The Fool. Poor, poor damn fool.
"Yes," he nearly hissed. Of course he had a date. He was a reporter - he needed information. Someone had to be working while he played. There was a note of pride as Lucian bent in closer, pointing across the room to a girl dressed in black with her hair up and ink splotches on her fingers. "There, that one's mine tonight." He liked Ms. Stone. He liked that her career was thanks to him, and she reflected well on him. He liked owning her. She was a nice, shiny toy to show off. "I wouldn't get too close if I were you." A vicious, biting toy.
Lucian straightened back up and turned just enough to see a serpentine figure weaving to them.
He didn't know if Elijah saw her, but he knew they had a past. And it was an awful quick departure he made. Smart lad. Lucian let him go, turning to face Vanessa just as she came up. It was almost out of character for him, but his eyes wandered down to her shoes and back up. And they were fine shoes, too. Ahem.
The looped jewelry, the color combination.. the effect she was going for was obvious. The Snake. All she needed was bright red lips to make people think of The Apple in the garden, and her symbolism would be flawless. A snake was fitting, he supposed, but she imitated something else, too.
Pestilence.
Did you know that Pestilence wasn't originally one of the four horsemen? It was Conquest. Only people thought Conquest [although that word can also translate to Victory in the original Greek] and War were to similar, and diseases were a big problem in Christendom at the time. Plagues were a force just as strong as the others with their lack of medical understanding, even while we over look it in the modern era. So it was changed in pop culture [though not in most versions of Revelations], and then forgotten, but that was why he liked it best.
Pestilence was quiet. It snuck in, and spread, rotting you from the inside out. It got inside your mind and your heart and didn't drive you to horrors, but made you face the horror of yourself. It wore you down until you were too tired to live. It wasn't a glorious battle, or a problem in the world that needed to be fixed, and it wasn't an inevitability we all fear. It was discrete, and that was beautiful. Beautiful in the same way snakes were, though snakes had the added benefit of being loved as a symbol for evil.
Vanessa wasn't pestilence. Beautiful as she was - and there was a certain... symmetry to her. He knew, objectively speaking, she was attractive. Though he didn't fawn for her - she wasn't a cancer. He smiled at her, a small smirk that he simply couldn't resist when someone stroked his ego, and slowly brought his eyes up to her face, "But it's you people can't take their eyes off." And on cue he looked away. He didn't to eye contact, looking over her shoulder and steeling glances.
"You're missing the symbolism. White is purity, don't mistake that to goodness, as our Elijah has." He looked up and around the room, admiring. He liked it. He liked the blinding white, the crystal, the old fashion feel, the ceiling high above them. "White is the absence of color. Half the world sees it as mourning, and even we associate it with specters and mystery. It's an extreme, like our black. And as extremes they have more in common then opposed. Purity can blind us," his gaze roamed back down to Vanessa, a small, distant smile fading as he looked at her. "The more corrupt something is, the more pristine they try to be. This is decadence at its finest." There was a tone to that. Implying he thought she would appreciate all this. And shame on her for not being clever.
"Sit with me at dinner," he invited with a purr, "I'll save you from excess and bore you with business instead." He turned to walk away, hands folded behind his back, but paused, half turned to her and added on, "And I'm in need of some refreshing company."

Speaking of.
His eyes homed in on August. Lucian shrugged his shoulders, cracked his neck, and headed for him, waving through the stream of people without looking away. Jordyn was hardly a foot note, and the girls weren't even worth noticing. Everyone had kept asking if he was nervous for tonight. No. He wasn't. In fact, he was looking forward to it. Lucian didn't get out to socialize much, and he never saw August. There were days when he missed the opportunity to attack. Their little ritual of battling wits was infuriating, and frustrating, and insulting, and to be honest, Lucian didn't always win. But he would always come back for more. It didn't matter who's blood he tasted - it called to him.
"August, dearest," he drew out the name, rolling it on his tongue as if testing for weaknesses in it. "They still let you into these? I thought standards would be in the budget for sure this year."
It wasn't affection that danced in his eyes. And it certainly wasn't friendship that turned his polite smile feral.

word count: 1,219

[DoV-gnilkrad]

Scene: "The Birth of a Narcissist." A young boy is being crowned, this is his coronation.
February 2013

Quote:

A poor boy from a poor family. He could feel the servants watching him the whole time he was being prepared, going over lines, getting dolled up and schooled, introduced to a blur of faces he wasn't sure he'd be able to remember. He could almost hear what they were thinking. Sneering at him, even when his head was held high.
His parents had never amounted to anything. His grandparents had never amount to anything. No one he knew had ever done anything worth a damn. In all this short, nine years, Nicolas had grown terrified of his fate. He had the prophecies, fragments of images crystal clear even without context.
He was destined for greatness.
But he's spent his whole life looking at his bland, middle class house, and all he could think is 'how?' He hadn't learned to trust the visions yet, and wasn't even sure if they were real. Maybe the things that happened were just Deja Vu. And the visions were daydreams. Desperate desires rather than facts yet to be. He was so scared.... so scared that he'd never be more than his parents. It kept him awake at night, made his stomach cramp at recess when the others picked on him. It made each grade below 100% feel like a knife wound, and ever insinuation that he was normal a dire insult. They didn't see him. They didn't see what he Could be if only he was given the chance. To the whole world, even his parents he looked outstandingly... average.
The only person who thought him something special was his sister. And even that, for as much as he loved her, felt like a death grip. What did it matter? One person, so painfully middle-rung, seeing him for what he was? It was like the hyena calling the rat beautiful. Heartfelt as it might be, they didn't exactly had the knowledge, standard or creditable to make that compliment mean much. It only foiled how the people who really did know the meaning of that word hadn't been the one to bestow it.

It all changed in the blink of an eye.
From low income housing to a palace.
It was vindicating.... and scary. He didn't want to do it without Peony. Without his parents. He didn't want to leave the comfort of everything he knew. Meeting all these people... there was a lingering doubt. Was he really meant for this? Could he really do it? Was he good enough?
....Of course he was. Yes, sure as his shifting, he had to be. He'd been pining his whole life. Trying to fill the shoes of someone who really was in that place. Making sure he always kept his calm, used the best words, dressed the nicest he good. He acted the part, in preparation that it might be his one day. And now it was.

A rather scary looking person walked up. Stocked up. Tall, tall even for a grown up with wide, bulging eyes like he was a bug. A bug on drugs. Pale skin. He looked like a vampire, and it was just a little unnerving. If it hadn't sounded too much like a comic book to be real - Nicolas would have been sure that he was a bad guy. And he was so harsh, too. Stern. Nicolas instantly felt like he was being scolded. "No," he meeped. The more he talked, the more Nicolas lowered his head and slumped his shoulders. The words cut deep. Confirming ever insecurity. No one thought he could do this. Everyone hated him, he could feel it in their eyes. No one believed he was what he was. Maybe it's because he wasn't.
Then lift your head. A monarch is never weak.
He blinked and looked up, eyes glassy. Nicolas crumpled his brow at the man, hesitating for a moment. Untrusting of the words. But they echoed through his mind, and it felt like confirmation. Slowly he squared his shoulders, and steeled himself.
No, a monarch is never weak.
Be strong.
-------------------------------------------------

The double doors were opened by servants. He watched the room for a second, all the faces turning around to take in their new beloved. There were so many he didn't know. His family was probably in the front row, and he wished he could see them now. He wished they could see him. They would, of course, he knew that. He wanted everyone in the whole world to see.
This is where he belonged.
Gold and jade, and fine suits and everyone giving those small, proud smiles of adoration and admiration.
See me.
Love me.
Worship. Me.
I am at home.
For the first time in his life, Nicolas felt like he belonged. That he was finally getting everything he deserved. The recognition he tried so hard for. All that pain and hard work. All the careful arguments, and attentiveness to things just beyond his grasp. All of his life had come down to right here, right now.
He'd never felt more like himself then at this point.
For the ceremony he’d been dressed in ritual cloths. He didn’t know if they had it tailored, or it them fitting perfectly was a sign, but in deep purples, gold’s and reds, he looked the part of the Prince. It was a role he had to play, like they were reenacting a story. They’d told it to him, a little history lesson, a different twist on the one he’d heard from his parents. Nicolas wasn’t sure if it was history or a fable, though. When he’d asked, they’d only smiled. In one hand he had the staff, bladed and jeweled like the one the prince has used to cut the threads of Fate that bound all of humanity. And in the other a goblet with the waters of time – which smelled suspiciously like wine. A sword on one hip, a wand in the other. And on neck hung a pentacle. He’d been told that every card was represented for him, for the adventures of the fool wandering the cards and learning from them. That only once ever lesson had been mastered that he could become The Prince and the Prince could save the people.
It all made more questions than it answered, but Nicolas hadn’t dared ask. Else he look like he hadn’t learned and they sent him home and took that white-haired girl as ruler instead.
" Princeling, bend the knee in the presence of Grace. Before sits the thrown and crown of the Emperor's of our people. By time immemorial the power of all that we are held here . The throne sits empty and the crown is barren. They called forth for a new vessel.“ He walked slowly, each step deliberate, eyes glued on the bug-eyed teacher at the end of the fall. He kneeled when told, lowering his head in humility and staring intently at the man’s feet. He barked each word as loud as he could, and tried to imbue it with power. He’d been told the words have power of their own, and the stronger you say them, the more powerful the magic they’ll weave. He didn’t know if magic was happening now. He couldn’t feel it if it could. There were chills on his back and up his arms, and his heart beat wildly, and while the room spun his head didn’t. It was dazzling, but it didn’t feel like Magic. At least, how he thought magic would feel.
"It is I who has come in answer to the call."
"Give your name to the crown."
"Nicolas Fayette Ashland."
"From this day fourth let not your mortal name bind you. The Arcana knows you for what you are."
"It is I who has come in answer to the call."
"Young Star, the People need a Lord to transcend into a life of service. It is an obligation stronger then Freedom. An obligation stronger then Self. An obligation that demands a pledge of obedience. An obligation that demands fidelity in your deference, that you cease to be your own. As they are yours, you are theirs."
"It is I who has come in answer to the call."
"The answer is heard. So swear, and rise as Emperor."
"I swear. By the Title of my birth and the Crown of the Emperor's before me. By the Major Arcana, and The Wands, The Cups, The Swords, The Pentacles. I so do swear, by the eyes that bear witness.” He paused and lifted his face to the Hangman, eyes ablaze. With each word he moved to get up until he stood perfectly straight, a warrior’s stance. ”I. am. Your. Emperor. "
Nothing had ever been more true. He hadn’t said the words out loud until just then, not wanting to ruin the first time. I. Am. Emperor. There was the power. He could feel it now.
Nicolas stepped forward. The crown didn’t fit but he didn’t care. He’d grow into it. It would be on his head until his head was much bigger. He could hardly wait. For a second he wanted to tell Hangman to keep his expression nice. Nicolas was emperor now. Everyone Had to love him.
Only, for all his ego stroking and megalomania, Nicolas wasn’t bad. He knew why he was here, now. He knew their last king had died and everyone had loved him. He knew how much he’d hate the boy who took his king’s place. If someone tried to replace his sister… he wouldn’t manage to keep quiet as well as Hangman. No, he wouldn’t lord his title over someone like that. He told himself he wouldn’t Ever. So instead he added in a quite tone, just loud enough for the two to hear, “I take my promises seriously. I am here for them. I know that. And I’m not going to let anyone down.”
Nicolas believed it. Fullheartedly. He wanted – needed their devotion but …. But an Emperor was For his people. Their safety and happiness. IT was like having children now. He would always put them first. He would give anything for them.
Because he knew what it was like to not have someone sacrifice for your own good. And now that he was the parent he would do whatever would help his children the most. They deserved to shine, too.
He wouldn’t be like his parents.
Selfish.

Word Count: 1,735