And this was how We met...
Part One of Two
Part One of Two
In the Beginning
With a considerable amount of unnecessary force, Desmond Baits kicked his car door shut; doing his best to vent the seething mass of black anger roiling about in his stomach. There was next to nothing that he could do about his anger, or the situation that brought it on. So he settled for the next best thing- using excessively violent force on objects that weren't to blame and were incapable of fighting back.
Not that it mattered; his car could stand another dent and a few more scratches that effectively ruined its old paint job. A 1975 Ford Maverick, didn't really need special treatment or care, it was a s**t car on its last legs and the only reason he hadn't dropped it off at the local junkyard or chop-shop was because it had passable mileage, still ran, and wasn't worth anything on the whole- or in spare parts. He didn't lock it up, why waste the extra effort when the neighborhood vandals didn't even bother to personalize it the way they had his house?
Desmond idly considered opening the door to retrieve his paperwork detailing the fine nuances of his recent job promotion. And wisely decided against it, unless he wanted to call up Boss-man for a fresh copy- after setting fire to the first one. His mood was still that black. Instead he opted to turn away from the temptation and head towards his house, careful not to step in any questionable piles that lay nestled throughout his half-dead and overgrown lawn.
The job he'd previously had was a constant struggle between satisfaction at success and the bone-chilling fear of fatal repercussions. Desmond was one of the leading Identification Specialists within the Left Kingdom Investigations. A most dangerous yet worthwhile career to undertake where one studied, learned, and was trained to identify a variety of otherworldly entities. However, the creatures of myth and lore were as secretive as they were deadly and did not take well to the prying eyes and inquisitive minds of the very mortals that once worshipped and feared them- never mind conforming to human law. But it was a necessary evil that they were required to endure under the strict terms held within the *King's Contract. What it didn't mean was that everyone was happy about that particular fact, let alone willing to let such occur without some measure of severe, resistance on their part. Simply put, his job had been to figure out what creature broke whatever law they were not allowed to so easily dismiss.
Groaning in dismay, Desmond lifted his sneaker-clad foot to gage the damage. It was rank, squishy, warm, and frighteningly fresh. Likely the leavings of those freakish Lawn-Gnomes that had recently infested his yard. His upper lip curled in disgust and then anger upon hearing the small, high-pitched, and nails-on-a-chalk-board giggles a few feet off to his right.
His new job was essentially the same, but instead of being the tattle-tail from a very far and very safe distance, Desmond now had to identify the species, figure out possible motivations for crimes committed, but he also had to hunt and capture the crafty, dangerous, and highly pissed off beings responsible. It was certainly not the greatest day to be had.
With some caution he cut through the tall grass in his yard to step onto the cement pathway up to his house. He was quick to slip out of his miss-matched sneakers, bending over he retrieved them just as swiftly (Lawn-Gnomes had a tendency to make target-practice out of one's posterior when put on such clear display.)
The continued giggles were a bad sign, it meant that they were plotting, or that something bad was coming. Desmond hurried to get up onto his porch and inside his house without appearing to run or look as panicked as he felt. The little cretins were scavengers by nature, but if you gave them an inch...
One hand rifled through his jeans-pocket in search of his house keys while the other raised up to toss dirtied sneakers off to the side of his porch; Desmond hop, skipped, and half-jumped the three steps it took to get on the cement landing of his meager porch. The momentum from the quick movements sent him a bit further than he'd originally planned. With his dominant hand trapped in his pocket, the other splayed out to ensure his sneakers landed far from the porch, and his eyes trained on the tall-grass shivering with fits of raucously grating laughter, Desmond's sock-clad feet got tripped up, causing his upper body to launch forward even as his lower half slipped back.
Desmond saw stars before he felt the pain burn throughout his body. Drawing in a sharp hiss of pain he cursed fiercely under his breath. His forehead felt like it was on fire, never mind the blaze he felt in his knees, shins, and the tops of his toes.
"Gods, how he hated scraping himself- it always seemed to hurt a lot more than anything else, like hot, desert sand being rubbed into the shallow wounds alongside a dose of salt. It all didn't hurt too terribly much right now, but once the bruising set in and his brain realized it had taken a considerable blow from his own damned door... The headache was already settling in alongside the steady, throbbing pains of enflamed nerve endings.
Shrieking giggles had yet to subside, if anything, they'd only increased, the tall stalks of yellowed grass trembling most viciously in their humor. A clear sign that he had a full audience despite how cleverly they hid themselves. He was half-tempted to do yard work because of it since cleaning and grooming his front lawn would effectively rid him of the little nuisances that had (here he glanced down to his left, non-plussed at what he didn't find,) snatched another pair of shoes from him.
Easing himself up onto his feet, wincing at the uncomfortable and mildly-painful stretching of flesh over his toes- he dared not touch the throbbing mass that was once his forehead. Withdrawing the keys from his pocket, Desmond plucked the correct key from the jingling mass and slid it home so he could get inside and get himself cleaned up. And order some take-out, because he was not feeling up to cooking right now.
Having scarcely made it into the hallway after shrugging out of his coat, Desmond was bowled over by one spitting, growling, and hissing mass of black fur full of sharp claws, fangs, and an unending supply of bitter rage.
"Cylus!" he yelled, grabbing fistfuls of fur and holding the angry feline at arms-length, “What the hell!?" his arms were getting scratched up by the wildly flailing forepaws just as his belly was getting the same treatment from the hind legs.
Hissing and fiercer growls were the swift reply as the abnormally large cat drew back his head, flattened his ears, bared glistening fangs, and swipe threateningly at the offender who dared attempt any methods of restraint against him. His black tail swished behind him like a deadly viper swaying from side to side in order to bewitch its victim...
"What is your problem?!" he demanded, shoving the great beast of a cat away and off of him, scrabbling to his feet so he could glare down at Cylus from a markedly safer distance. Desmond did not want to get his face shredded or have the cat go for his throat- if he could help it.
The cat did not launch into another attack, instead he settled for backing up, hackles raised, and fur puffed up in warning as a low, sibilant growl snaked through the air from between clenched jaws that displayed sharp, white teeth. Tail jerking back and forth, Cylus eased himself slowly towards the still open door; his attentions remained on Desmond, the low growl slowly dying out only to be renewed with each indrawn breath. Sharp green eyes were trained quite firmly upon Desmond's own blue, so when they diverted sharply to the back of the house- the other eyes followed.
Turning back to where Cylus should have been, Desmond exhaled a shaky breath at hearing a shrill scream of pain drift inside from the yard. That meant the menace was outside- he was quick to slam the front door shut and slide the dead-bolt into place. Shoulders slumping in relief, he turned around, absently flicking the hallway lights on while heading for the bathroom to disinfect his newest set of injuries significantly more bloody and painful than the first.
He didn't notice anything amiss until he'd raised his hand to half-heartedly grope for the bathroom light switch while sagging against the open door, bone-tired. World-weary blue eyes stared unseeingly at the deep scratches that had been carved into the cheap plaster of his walls. Their significance didn't register for nearly a full three minutes as his foggy, cotton-stuffed brain processed some very key facts. The first was that Cylus wasn't the cause of them- the cat was most assuredly a beastly, ill-tempered, and poor-mannered acquaintance... But he did not scratch up the walls; it was no where near as satisfying for him to do so compared to wrecking Desmond's furniture that was much more accommodating when it came to destruction. Sofas, recliners, blankets, and pillows bled fluffy, messy bits all over the house; wood splintered, glass shattered, and metal bent and broke into sharp, deadly points. Cheap plaster broke off into neat little chalk-piles that lined the walls. It just wasn't satisfying enough for the vengeful feline from hell.
The second thing Desmond took notice of was the fact that the claw marks themselves were too low to the floor to be the work of Cylus. The cat was as big as a dog, after all. The last thing he noticed was perhaps the most trivial, but it happened to be the most telling- the claw-marks were in sets of five, not four.
Desmond was not alone in his house.
Drifting away from the bathroom, further down the hall and making his way through the dining room, his ears began to pick up on the sounds that grew louder with each step he took closer to the living room. He winced at the sound of good leather being torn; not his favorite leather recliner! It had taken a solid week of pricey, meaty bribes to convince Cylus that it was in his best interest not to filet it. Freezing in the doorway between the dining and living room, Desmond let his gaze travel warily across the expanse of his living room, using the light of the moon that filtered in through the windows and sliding glass doors to see its contents.
The cheap entertainment center was laying face-down in its own ruins, shards of glass and splintered wood framed the mildly-clawed television. The plain, off-white carpet actually had half-chewed holes in it, bizarrely enough (Desmond couldn't fathom the point of trying to eat carpet, even if a variety of foods had once graced and stained its scratchy contours.) All small and breakable objects he had in the living room were, of course, broken or in a large number of small pieces all over the room. The larger objects (namely his furniture and all things above waist-level,) were still in-tact to varying degrees. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, Desmond allowed his eyes to crawl over and up to his favorite leather recliner.
He felt a small, heart-felt twinge of despair at seeing it's sleek, smooth, and so very soft flesh litter the ground in strips and chunks. Some of the leather clung valiantly to the sides and arms in a desperate attempt to preserve its once, glorious appearance. Desmond clenched his jaw, brow drawing down into a fierce scowl as his eyes alighted onto the source of the destruction that was likely the cause for Cylus's abrupt attack on his person.
The creature was half-obscured by bits of fluff, torn scraps of leather, and white bandages that stood out brilliantly against the dark it surrounded. It was constantly in motion, writhing, wriggling, burrowing, and flailing in it's never-ending quest to destroy everything that Desmond held dear (he truly had quite the soft-spot for that recliner.) Small clouds of stuffing flew up into the air, descending in slow, graceful arcs around the thrashing figure; distantly, he thought he'd spotted a fluffy black tail somewhere in there and assumed dog.
But that was absurd; there were no dogs in his neighborhood, normal animals kept well away from 'monster' territory.
Without quite realizing it, Desmond had slowly but surely been inching his way into the living room and closer to the destroyed recliner, trying to get a better look at the creature whom had so thoroughly trashed his living room and had somehow managed to get inside his house. Once closer, he was able to pick up on the small, nearly unheard rumbling growls that floated up between the ripping and tearing noises. The trickling snarls were rough, unused, and struck him as very young- nothing more than a puppy's untried racket trying to imitate the bestial growls of its elders.
Despite this summation he'd come to, the eerie, near-whisper like rumbling that resonated from deep within the creatures chest- set the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end while a thrill of cold shivers wracked his haggard body.
Freezing in place, Desmond realized that he had gotten too close to the small entity. For the fluff had stopped flying and the air had grown cold and silent. Unable to move or brace himself against possible attack, the thirty-two year old wreck of a man watched the small, dark creature swathed in nigh-glowing bandages stiffen- its small form arching back to display a head full of wild, black and white-colored hair. Two fuzzy little triangles atop its head twitched and swiveled while a large, bushy tail jerked to the side where it tucked itself firmly around the tiny being that did not seem quite as big as he'd originally assumed. Then, with an easygoing, borderline indolence, the mysterious animal turned itself around to face him.
It was like swallowing the moon in all of its cold, unforgiving beauty.
He could hear nothing, he could not feel any of his throbbing, aching, and openly bleeding wounds; he couldn't even taste the sticky dryness within his mouth, and he could see nothing beyond the twin pools of silver surrounded by the darkness. This stark absence stole the breath from his lungs and chilled the seething anger that had slowly formed within his belly. For a split second, he could have sworn that not only had his heart stopped beating, but that his blood had frozen solid within his veins.
Silver.
Desmond's entire world had been reduced to two single orbs of icebound silver. He did not know that he'd yet to draw breath, had yet to move, and had yet to blink, or even draw thought. All that there could be was a darkening of his vision, a mugginess that ensnared his empty mind, and all that he could struggle to conceive within this stark absence of thought was; the dark is impeding my sight.
Then the world turned, the air flooded in, life filled the room, and the spell broke- the creature leapt forward, arms out-stretched and claws bared...
Not that it mattered; his car could stand another dent and a few more scratches that effectively ruined its old paint job. A 1975 Ford Maverick, didn't really need special treatment or care, it was a s**t car on its last legs and the only reason he hadn't dropped it off at the local junkyard or chop-shop was because it had passable mileage, still ran, and wasn't worth anything on the whole- or in spare parts. He didn't lock it up, why waste the extra effort when the neighborhood vandals didn't even bother to personalize it the way they had his house?
Desmond idly considered opening the door to retrieve his paperwork detailing the fine nuances of his recent job promotion. And wisely decided against it, unless he wanted to call up Boss-man for a fresh copy- after setting fire to the first one. His mood was still that black. Instead he opted to turn away from the temptation and head towards his house, careful not to step in any questionable piles that lay nestled throughout his half-dead and overgrown lawn.
The job he'd previously had was a constant struggle between satisfaction at success and the bone-chilling fear of fatal repercussions. Desmond was one of the leading Identification Specialists within the Left Kingdom Investigations. A most dangerous yet worthwhile career to undertake where one studied, learned, and was trained to identify a variety of otherworldly entities. However, the creatures of myth and lore were as secretive as they were deadly and did not take well to the prying eyes and inquisitive minds of the very mortals that once worshipped and feared them- never mind conforming to human law. But it was a necessary evil that they were required to endure under the strict terms held within the *King's Contract. What it didn't mean was that everyone was happy about that particular fact, let alone willing to let such occur without some measure of severe, resistance on their part. Simply put, his job had been to figure out what creature broke whatever law they were not allowed to so easily dismiss.
Groaning in dismay, Desmond lifted his sneaker-clad foot to gage the damage. It was rank, squishy, warm, and frighteningly fresh. Likely the leavings of those freakish Lawn-Gnomes that had recently infested his yard. His upper lip curled in disgust and then anger upon hearing the small, high-pitched, and nails-on-a-chalk-board giggles a few feet off to his right.
His new job was essentially the same, but instead of being the tattle-tail from a very far and very safe distance, Desmond now had to identify the species, figure out possible motivations for crimes committed, but he also had to hunt and capture the crafty, dangerous, and highly pissed off beings responsible. It was certainly not the greatest day to be had.
With some caution he cut through the tall grass in his yard to step onto the cement pathway up to his house. He was quick to slip out of his miss-matched sneakers, bending over he retrieved them just as swiftly (Lawn-Gnomes had a tendency to make target-practice out of one's posterior when put on such clear display.)
The continued giggles were a bad sign, it meant that they were plotting, or that something bad was coming. Desmond hurried to get up onto his porch and inside his house without appearing to run or look as panicked as he felt. The little cretins were scavengers by nature, but if you gave them an inch...
One hand rifled through his jeans-pocket in search of his house keys while the other raised up to toss dirtied sneakers off to the side of his porch; Desmond hop, skipped, and half-jumped the three steps it took to get on the cement landing of his meager porch. The momentum from the quick movements sent him a bit further than he'd originally planned. With his dominant hand trapped in his pocket, the other splayed out to ensure his sneakers landed far from the porch, and his eyes trained on the tall-grass shivering with fits of raucously grating laughter, Desmond's sock-clad feet got tripped up, causing his upper body to launch forward even as his lower half slipped back.
Desmond saw stars before he felt the pain burn throughout his body. Drawing in a sharp hiss of pain he cursed fiercely under his breath. His forehead felt like it was on fire, never mind the blaze he felt in his knees, shins, and the tops of his toes.
"Gods, how he hated scraping himself- it always seemed to hurt a lot more than anything else, like hot, desert sand being rubbed into the shallow wounds alongside a dose of salt. It all didn't hurt too terribly much right now, but once the bruising set in and his brain realized it had taken a considerable blow from his own damned door... The headache was already settling in alongside the steady, throbbing pains of enflamed nerve endings.
Shrieking giggles had yet to subside, if anything, they'd only increased, the tall stalks of yellowed grass trembling most viciously in their humor. A clear sign that he had a full audience despite how cleverly they hid themselves. He was half-tempted to do yard work because of it since cleaning and grooming his front lawn would effectively rid him of the little nuisances that had (here he glanced down to his left, non-plussed at what he didn't find,) snatched another pair of shoes from him.
Easing himself up onto his feet, wincing at the uncomfortable and mildly-painful stretching of flesh over his toes- he dared not touch the throbbing mass that was once his forehead. Withdrawing the keys from his pocket, Desmond plucked the correct key from the jingling mass and slid it home so he could get inside and get himself cleaned up. And order some take-out, because he was not feeling up to cooking right now.
Having scarcely made it into the hallway after shrugging out of his coat, Desmond was bowled over by one spitting, growling, and hissing mass of black fur full of sharp claws, fangs, and an unending supply of bitter rage.
"Cylus!" he yelled, grabbing fistfuls of fur and holding the angry feline at arms-length, “What the hell!?" his arms were getting scratched up by the wildly flailing forepaws just as his belly was getting the same treatment from the hind legs.
Hissing and fiercer growls were the swift reply as the abnormally large cat drew back his head, flattened his ears, bared glistening fangs, and swipe threateningly at the offender who dared attempt any methods of restraint against him. His black tail swished behind him like a deadly viper swaying from side to side in order to bewitch its victim...
"What is your problem?!" he demanded, shoving the great beast of a cat away and off of him, scrabbling to his feet so he could glare down at Cylus from a markedly safer distance. Desmond did not want to get his face shredded or have the cat go for his throat- if he could help it.
The cat did not launch into another attack, instead he settled for backing up, hackles raised, and fur puffed up in warning as a low, sibilant growl snaked through the air from between clenched jaws that displayed sharp, white teeth. Tail jerking back and forth, Cylus eased himself slowly towards the still open door; his attentions remained on Desmond, the low growl slowly dying out only to be renewed with each indrawn breath. Sharp green eyes were trained quite firmly upon Desmond's own blue, so when they diverted sharply to the back of the house- the other eyes followed.
Turning back to where Cylus should have been, Desmond exhaled a shaky breath at hearing a shrill scream of pain drift inside from the yard. That meant the menace was outside- he was quick to slam the front door shut and slide the dead-bolt into place. Shoulders slumping in relief, he turned around, absently flicking the hallway lights on while heading for the bathroom to disinfect his newest set of injuries significantly more bloody and painful than the first.
He didn't notice anything amiss until he'd raised his hand to half-heartedly grope for the bathroom light switch while sagging against the open door, bone-tired. World-weary blue eyes stared unseeingly at the deep scratches that had been carved into the cheap plaster of his walls. Their significance didn't register for nearly a full three minutes as his foggy, cotton-stuffed brain processed some very key facts. The first was that Cylus wasn't the cause of them- the cat was most assuredly a beastly, ill-tempered, and poor-mannered acquaintance... But he did not scratch up the walls; it was no where near as satisfying for him to do so compared to wrecking Desmond's furniture that was much more accommodating when it came to destruction. Sofas, recliners, blankets, and pillows bled fluffy, messy bits all over the house; wood splintered, glass shattered, and metal bent and broke into sharp, deadly points. Cheap plaster broke off into neat little chalk-piles that lined the walls. It just wasn't satisfying enough for the vengeful feline from hell.
The second thing Desmond took notice of was the fact that the claw marks themselves were too low to the floor to be the work of Cylus. The cat was as big as a dog, after all. The last thing he noticed was perhaps the most trivial, but it happened to be the most telling- the claw-marks were in sets of five, not four.
Desmond was not alone in his house.
Drifting away from the bathroom, further down the hall and making his way through the dining room, his ears began to pick up on the sounds that grew louder with each step he took closer to the living room. He winced at the sound of good leather being torn; not his favorite leather recliner! It had taken a solid week of pricey, meaty bribes to convince Cylus that it was in his best interest not to filet it. Freezing in the doorway between the dining and living room, Desmond let his gaze travel warily across the expanse of his living room, using the light of the moon that filtered in through the windows and sliding glass doors to see its contents.
The cheap entertainment center was laying face-down in its own ruins, shards of glass and splintered wood framed the mildly-clawed television. The plain, off-white carpet actually had half-chewed holes in it, bizarrely enough (Desmond couldn't fathom the point of trying to eat carpet, even if a variety of foods had once graced and stained its scratchy contours.) All small and breakable objects he had in the living room were, of course, broken or in a large number of small pieces all over the room. The larger objects (namely his furniture and all things above waist-level,) were still in-tact to varying degrees. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, Desmond allowed his eyes to crawl over and up to his favorite leather recliner.
He felt a small, heart-felt twinge of despair at seeing it's sleek, smooth, and so very soft flesh litter the ground in strips and chunks. Some of the leather clung valiantly to the sides and arms in a desperate attempt to preserve its once, glorious appearance. Desmond clenched his jaw, brow drawing down into a fierce scowl as his eyes alighted onto the source of the destruction that was likely the cause for Cylus's abrupt attack on his person.
The creature was half-obscured by bits of fluff, torn scraps of leather, and white bandages that stood out brilliantly against the dark it surrounded. It was constantly in motion, writhing, wriggling, burrowing, and flailing in it's never-ending quest to destroy everything that Desmond held dear (he truly had quite the soft-spot for that recliner.) Small clouds of stuffing flew up into the air, descending in slow, graceful arcs around the thrashing figure; distantly, he thought he'd spotted a fluffy black tail somewhere in there and assumed dog.
But that was absurd; there were no dogs in his neighborhood, normal animals kept well away from 'monster' territory.
Without quite realizing it, Desmond had slowly but surely been inching his way into the living room and closer to the destroyed recliner, trying to get a better look at the creature whom had so thoroughly trashed his living room and had somehow managed to get inside his house. Once closer, he was able to pick up on the small, nearly unheard rumbling growls that floated up between the ripping and tearing noises. The trickling snarls were rough, unused, and struck him as very young- nothing more than a puppy's untried racket trying to imitate the bestial growls of its elders.
Despite this summation he'd come to, the eerie, near-whisper like rumbling that resonated from deep within the creatures chest- set the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end while a thrill of cold shivers wracked his haggard body.
Freezing in place, Desmond realized that he had gotten too close to the small entity. For the fluff had stopped flying and the air had grown cold and silent. Unable to move or brace himself against possible attack, the thirty-two year old wreck of a man watched the small, dark creature swathed in nigh-glowing bandages stiffen- its small form arching back to display a head full of wild, black and white-colored hair. Two fuzzy little triangles atop its head twitched and swiveled while a large, bushy tail jerked to the side where it tucked itself firmly around the tiny being that did not seem quite as big as he'd originally assumed. Then, with an easygoing, borderline indolence, the mysterious animal turned itself around to face him.
It was like swallowing the moon in all of its cold, unforgiving beauty.
He could hear nothing, he could not feel any of his throbbing, aching, and openly bleeding wounds; he couldn't even taste the sticky dryness within his mouth, and he could see nothing beyond the twin pools of silver surrounded by the darkness. This stark absence stole the breath from his lungs and chilled the seething anger that had slowly formed within his belly. For a split second, he could have sworn that not only had his heart stopped beating, but that his blood had frozen solid within his veins.
Silver.
Desmond's entire world had been reduced to two single orbs of icebound silver. He did not know that he'd yet to draw breath, had yet to move, and had yet to blink, or even draw thought. All that there could be was a darkening of his vision, a mugginess that ensnared his empty mind, and all that he could struggle to conceive within this stark absence of thought was; the dark is impeding my sight.
Then the world turned, the air flooded in, life filled the room, and the spell broke- the creature leapt forward, arms out-stretched and claws bared...
*King's Contract: On April 26, 1820 in Boston, Massachusetts, a coalition of mythical creatures appeared before President James Monroe during his Good Will tour; revealing not only themselves, but a number of other beings once thought to have been nothing more than stories. Upon exposing themselves to President Monroe, the selected group of creatures negotiated for the right to exist on equal standing with humans; this monumental debate went on for thirteen days straight until an agreement was struck and a contract was drawn up and signed by all creatures and persons present. This contract garnered the name of "King's Contract" and swiftly became the most important document in the entirety of the United States of America.
The creatures that stepped from the shadows on behalf of their brothers and sisters became known as The First Ones. For shortly after the King's Contract was signed, more creatures revealed themselves across the globe.
After the First Ones signed the King's Contract and accepted terms, two creatures of every species submitted themselves to the humans for study and identification. This project took many years and was not completed until October 13th, 1842, the day the Left and Right Kingdoms were born; for the creatures proved to be so very different from the known kingdoms that a definitive split was required.
