|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Tue Feb 10, 2015 9:15 pm
_______The Breath of Us
_______Word Count: 2494Where I’m from, there’s the Bloodless and the Bloodlust. They are of two entirely different mindsets - fringe factions in the same location.
Two different ways to look at the world that’s trying to kill you.
The Bloodless learned to stay inside, to nurse their superstitions and keep quiet in case the demons took notice of them. They’d meet every night they could to share techniques that warded away the last demon to crawl through the town. They’d burn candles in their windows, until someone was attacked, and then the whole side of the village would go dark the next night. They thought the dead were bad luck, that burying someone trapped their soul in the dirt and the stench of the unrequited soul would attract more demons.
This resulted in sacrificial methods likely deemed heinous in this city. Of the most benign came funeral pyres that stretched toward the stars.
When the bones were left, they were cast out into the woods. As far as the men could carry them. It wasn’t that the forest was forbidden, or unsafe - our forest was considered a sacred place by both sets of beliefs. From the forest came the rare banquet of deer, or elk, or squirrel, rabbit, muskrat, and further boons of meat and leather. From it came lavender for our baths, tree nuts for sweetened desserts, blackberry, and sacred ash. There were eucalyptus leaves to help with illness. Foxglove to mix into poisons and ward off the raccoons that ate our composting garbage.
In a sense, the forest was their god. Our god.
It was a cycle of give and take. The forest offered this great wealth of food and resources, and in exchange, the villagers carried the bones back to its graces. They would arrange the bones in a circle, the skull in the center, and paint their treasured symbols with blackberry paste. They used warding symbols on the skull to keep the demons from taking scent of the soul housed there; they believed that the soul left its scent behind in the skull, and that demons could smell their way back to the method by which we disposed the flesh. The other symbols served different purposes, each written in a language far older than any we’ve ever known. Most often they use the Scentless rune, the Blinding rune, and others to either drive back the demons or encourage them toward the foxglove poison lining the bones.
Sometimes the Bloodless surrounded the bones with sprigs of lavender. This was thought to attract the demons, and served as a warning to those of us who would hunt there - the lavender often marked the presence of a trap nearby. Sometimes lethal, sometimes meant to cage the demon that tried to find the soul within and slowly starve it out.
Sometimes they worked. We could tell by the ash pile beneath the cage.
The Bloodless carried other beliefs that might strike the average American as strange, or outright stupefying. They’d march out a calf bearing a lavender wreath around its neck to mark it for sacrifice. They believed it would save them. At the end of the year, they build a scarecrow out of old kindling left over from the woods, and everyone in the village would be urged to write a letter to those who died - ancestors, or those we met in this lifetime - because it was believed that stuffing the scarecrow full of these letters and burning it would carry the wishes to the afterlife. They coveted spiders as a mark of safety and tranquility - that seeing one in the house was a mark of steadiness for the year to come. They thought crows were beasts, and called the demons or their makers. They even stole tombstones from nearby cemeteries and maked them in blackberry paste, because they thought the soul trapped within would sate any demons that came close to their house.
All of these traditions - they started long before I was born, and long before the advent of these strange forces. We were never Amish, or Mennonite, nor did we exhibit much of their traits - but the few outsiders we attracted somehow managed to confuse us for those other cultures.. We were just outliers who chose our own faith and solitude, regardless of technological prowess. The Wardens used to say that we wanted to live closer to nature - even if we leaned on technology to do so. And yet, we still found ourselves plagued with creatures previously unseen.
You could say that, to the Bloodless, these monsters were demons.
You could say that, to the Bloodlust, these monsters were gods.
Not everything changed when the demons came, but enough damage was done to split the village in two. While the Bloodless cowered from these new creatures that came through the woods, the Bloodlust saw them as harbingers. As signs that spoke of distaste for our lifestyle.
We knew about the outside world. We knew about cars, cell phones, industry, machinery, planes, the internet. We traded enough with the outliers to know. When the demons first came, some of us thought they were mistaking us for city folk - that we were being penalized for their transgressions. We started to isolate further, to stop trading outside the forest. But no matter how we divested ourselves, their numbers only increased.
My brother was the one to come up with the idea. I don’t know what inspired him - maybe the belief held by the Bloodless that people with birthmarks were claimed by the devil. He started to think that the monsters may not be demons, but the gods we’ve struggled to appease all our lives. And for what manner we could not hope to understand, they were now brought to anger by our existence. And that we must strive to repent as much as possible before they claimed our souls.
Shale planted the seed that took in all of us. I remember it well - we both sat on the porch in the August rains, watching the forest while we shared a dish of nuts in caramelized sauce by candle. The forest shook under the flash of lightning, like it was quaking with rage. It looked ominous in the way it crept with shadows across the darkened, wild lawns. We were supposed to be watching it, looking for signs of the creatures pouring through the woods, because our house sat closest to the forest.
A large bell sat just before us, off to the right of the steps. I clutched the rope that tied to the top of the bell so tightly that my knuckles raged white across the bones. Slate, my brother, was younger than I, so it fell to me to hold the responsibility of warning the town. The rest of the folk gave us offerings in thanks, much like the dessert we ate then, and the warm blankets embroidered with warding runes to keep us safe through the night. They were meant for the bell ringer. But these gifts extended to my brother as a precaution - in case the beasts struck me down before I could warn the rest.
We watched the branches jerk and twitch and snarl at each other while the wind howled on. And my brother, growing ever spooked at the rancorous forest, whispered a question so quiet and meek that only I could hear.
Slate and I were named after portions of the earth because the duty of safeguarding our village fell to our house. Those who lived in this house could only be the strongest, most steadfast, and reticent of those born to the village. My father was Geode. My grandfather, Agate. His father, Sandstone. His grandfather, Basalt. We were the ones expected to adhere most vigorously to our religion. We were meant to be the steady force that the village itself could tether to, could look to for support. We were meant to be its protectors.
And then the fateful words passed my brother’s lips: “There are no demons in those woods.”
I asked him what he meant. If he was serious. Of course there were demons in the woods.
And he answered, no. He answered, “they’re gods.”
I asked him how he knew that. If he knew that he spoke blasphemy. If he was ill. If this was a joke. If I needed to remind him of how he would be punished for such thoughts.
But I knew. Somehow, I knew that he was right. We were at the mercy of angry gods. They sought our souls to drag them back to the Otherworld. No amount of ringing bells and hiding in darkened houses would safeguard us from divine wrath. But I questioned him, I raged at him, I yelled until my spit struck his face and his tears began to wash it away.
And then I asked him how. How do we fix this. How do we appease them.
To credit Slate with the creation of the Bloodlust is asking too much. We were just kids back then. But others, those we trusted with our secret, they started to catch on. They realized that every sacred ritual we performed from this day back did no good against these creatures, these baleful gods. And so we began to look at the deepest transgressions we knew - the art of bloodwork (bottling blood from hunted animals used for paint). Disposal of remains. Wearing the bones of those left to the forest, carved into jewelry and headdresses and other revelry so hated by our modest people. We painted our faces with old blood. We marked ourselves indelibly with sacred ash mixed with rainwater. With pigment carved up from the earth.
And we started our own culture. Our own worship.
Our loud rituals were too hard to hide from the rest of the village. They knew almost immediately - and sequestered themselves from our madness. Quarantined us, like our fevered views on these beasts was contagious.
And they were.
More and more joined the Bloodlust when it became clear that all efforts made to ward away these monsters never worked. Otherwise they were trapped in these hopeless caricatures of religious sanctimony, hoping that something might work. That one day, these demons might just go away. But they got desperate, and turned to everything we knew.
Because in time you start to think that you have to accept death. That all this objection and fear and denial is only meant to hurt you.
It was a full year before the exiles started. I don’t remember who called for it anymore. The idea caught like wildfire - this thought that ostracizing the youth of the village to send their souls back to the arms of the gods might help us. Might prepare us to take better stations in the Otherworld when they came to rend our spirits from our bodies. For all we knew, it was a pipe dream, but we were damned anyway.
At first, they cried for any child - any old enough to pull their own weight. Any teen possessed of innocence. But it wasn’t enough, they said, to have innocence and youth. There had to be something else. The gods knew no lax standards, else we would not be in this position. So they called for the mark that we long knew as the devil’s signature - the birthmark. Any child bearing a birthmark would be ushered into the woods and their soul would be returned to the forges of hell, should the creatures therein deem it acceptable. Any child, and we would trade our way into a better afterlife.
And then we would search the woods for the aftermath. For any clue that the child stayed behind, sheltered beneath the graces of the forest. Mostly we found nothing - perhaps the child escaped beyond our searching distance. But on the rare chance we found one of these children, wild-eyed and very much alive, they would know know an exalted life with the Bloodlust. The young were shunned by the Bloodless, and that was good enough for us.
After the first exile, my brother retired to his room. He left visibly shaken. I’d never known him to quake with such fear, so I followed him. Pounded on his door. Asked him for an explanation. I yelled until I was hoarse, but heard no answer. I pleaded with him, and yet he remained silent. And after we both sat against the door, each listening to our own ragged breaths, he finally spoke. He asked me to promise him my silence, that I’d never speak of what I’d see here. I didn’t understand, but I agreed. And finally, he let me in.
He stood before me naked, head to toe. Shivering with cold. These winter months were unkind to him, I knew, but his body wore such dimpling that it looked no different than the lake’s stippled surface beneath heavy rain. But in that moment, none of this mattered.
Stretched across his body was an umber snake, crawling from inner hip to groin with great splotches. An indelible sigil that razed his body.
A birthmark.
I remember how my breath caught in my throat, how my lungs wanted to wither shut like the dying perennials, how my eyes burned more fiercely than the summer nights laden with smoke. I remember how my fingernails bit into my palms so that I wore their marks for days. But in those moments, I don’t remember what I said. My body moved, but I don’t remember thinking of what I had to do next. I remember him crying. The sound of chimes. The wind rustling the bundles of dried straw.
I remember the twigs breaking beneath footfalls. Slipping in old leaves from autumn. Forcing my way through branches.
I remember screaming. I don’t know if it was my voice.
It was night, but there was a frigidness to the moonlight that left the woods stony and frozen. We were still marked with blood from the sacrifice. Covered in our bone jewelry and our sacrilegious feverdreams. Nothing moved but us. We were passing through a realm not our own, one hidden from us in nightly hour, yet we were trespassers here. We knew our own unwelcome.
Finally we found the altar, still thick with sticky blood. It felt fresh. Warm.
We stopped there, with my brother now doubled over from the long run. His arms clung desperately to his skinny, shivering body. I remember how they fought to hold the darkness in.
No. It wasn’t darkness.
The crows sounded their harbinger call, and something in the distance loosed such an unearthly noise that it chilled the very marrow in my bones. Before I could think, my feet carried me thirty arm lengths from the altar. From my brother.
I supported him.
I loved him.
But I took him to the woods to die.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Feb 10, 2015 9:16 pm
_______The Dark Hour_______Word Count: 1130Our bodies are no strangers to blood. Not on us, not in us, not around us.
Blood held so much import - so much symbolism, so much use. In this way, Destiny City feels like a foreign country. Blood is drained from the animals we eat and cast away like garbage, or sold by the gallon to actors and movie directors to be wasted on their props. They scorn the taste. They loathe the idea of foreign blood on their bodies, coating and coagulating to their skin.
And I cannot blame them, for they never grew up with the rituals I know. City life seems largely absent of such belief, aside from the smattering of churches and synagogues and other places of worship that I've seen when exploring. Some don signs of their faith on their bodies, and those I've expected to be more sympathetic toward my beliefs. Some know a measure of tolerance for it, but others cite it as hedonism, or other terms unfamiliar to me. It infuriates me, sometimes, that I've been thrust into a world that shows no want or love for such an integral part of my life - especially a world that seeks to steal my very faith from one belief to the next. I have no want of other gods, yet they express an interest in 'saving' me.
But in this life, we borrow on loan and pay back what we can. Ultimately, our debt overtakes us and we pay our highest gratitudes to those who influence our life.
We've always acknowledged blood as a toxin to our bodies - in that, we are not delusional. Too much lifeblood in the stomach and veins swells the spirit beyond its housing, and poisons what we cannot absorb into ourselves. Yet we've never wasted it, never left it behind to rot beneath the trees or mark the life lost for the forest to recognize our squandered takings. My brother and I always kept a measure of it in a vial around our necks, and traced that blood across the red insignias on our skin that mark our devotion. We felt the heat turned cold, and we felt the wet blood soon crust over in coagulation.
It would seem preposterous, I expect, to those here in the city. Who would deign to smear blood on their tattoos, and what reason renders it so compelling? What sort of religious practice demands such a ritual?
The spirit rests in the brain, so long as it can maintain a suitable abode. But in the blood lies the vitality of the animal, the driving strength that articulated that spirit and its every want through the woods or across the lands or into battle. That vibrancy knows no owner, only its own brand of blind devotion. Here, we mark ourselves with it for a twofold reason.
Our own blood rushes and burns when another creature's potency lay so close. It empowers us, even if we do not drink of it. And secondly, the smell of death on our skin marks us of our hierarchy in the forest - it confirms where we stand among its fauna, and even in our own standing among the village. Those who return marked with the blood of their kills in proper fashion may not be publicly honored, but they are respected all the more for each subsequent return. And lastly, it strengthens us in warding away the errant whims of the soul - the grief that hangs, the confusion that obscures, and the rage that compels beyond reason. So long as that vitality lasts in the coagulated blood, we know protection from these ails.
Blood also meets our altar on regular interval, whether let pool from the cooling corpse or painted in symbol imperative to our absolution. When we make our offerings, our requests for the rebalancing of the damage we wreak on our own souls, we place our offerings in the basin - a rabbit, or pheasant, or even squirrels suffice on some occasions. And should our honoring be accepted, we would return the following day to witness the corpse's absence and the blood drained dry to a thin brown film over the concave surface of the cairn. In this manner, we return the vitality taken for our own protection and the forest redistributes it according to Her own whims. And if we paint our symbols and calls along the flat rocks of our altars, then we make our calls and brazen demands for Her favor.
That arrogance cost me my brother.
When we left for the forest that night, it was to demand She remove Her mark of taking from him. His highest honor is his highest sacrifice - that birthmark spread across his body confirmed him as the one She would reclaim in due time. It may be in a week, or a year or even ten years, but She would take his life at Her behest. When he showed me, the panic struck away all faculties of logic I possessed.
We bolted. We ran into the forest at Her fateful hour, at the time in which we were not permitted to explore Her abode. We turned to the altar and its blood still thick and gorged with vitality, and I scooped a handful to write our demands. I asked that She pick another, someone far less important to me, for all the steady service I've provided. I asked on my own life's bargain after I asked for another. I covered the mark with blood and blackberry as was customary. I begged at length despite my brother's protests, his calls for me to cease and to let Her claim what She would in due time. He said that such petulant behavior would only anger Her, and incite our own punishment for our indiscretions.
And he was right.
She sent Her harbingers immediately, and separated us from each other. I knew Slate was right, that the only way to prevent both our returns to the roots and dew and teeth of this land was to acquiesce in Her will, so I left him.
And She awarded me with power beyond my imagination.
I cannot face that place now - the forest remains out of my reach. This new home holds nothing for me - no acceptance and no measure of barter with which I can practice my beliefs. No blood runs in this city but that which they toss into the streets, careless of its properties. No blood beats in the city but that which they spill of each other. No blood paints this city but that which we exact of each other in incidental strokes.
Yet I would sell every life I see to know my brother still lives.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Feb 10, 2015 9:18 pm
_______Antumbra_______Gore Warning_______Word Count: 2042It pains me to know that I will never finish my hunter's mark.
The scrawl of ink around my eye holds special significance as my first tattoo and my hunter's mark - a rare and potent insignia that inducts my body and mind into the stark life of a hunter. Among others, it identifies me as one ordained to take life and balance my own against the steepest demands we transact with her. It renders me both capable of and adept at seeking life among the forest. It declares me as one to seek for meat, furs, and leathers.
For solace in blood.
I received the mark at fourteen - later than most. Initially I knew no successes in most fields, including hunting. I didn't understand proper footing, or how to step in a manner that never aroused the suspicions of the animals, or the manner in which I should hold my bow for a more accurate shot. It worried my father greatly to know that one of his sons showed no aptitude in most fields that we adopt in Her favor. He tried everything he could think of, from expanding my horizons with other skills in hopes they influenced the ones that matter, to bringing in outside help for individual tutoring. But most attempts to teach me fell on deaf ears, for I was distracted in the throes of my own feelings.
I do not enjoy reflecting on these times, but I know that I must.
I should first explain that relationships are viewed differently here than they are in the city. As far as I can gather, relationships are intended to complete the soul according to the people here. I do not know why they think this. However, most seem intent on pursuing whichever sex they desire, while others don't bother to listen to their bodies when it comes to those desires, and another set of individuals prefer to ostracize the rest based on the sex they choose to form a relationship with. These practices escape me.
There is no way to complete the soul using another person's love and devotion, according to the beliefs I hold. When we are born, a complete soul is bestowed upon the body, and it cannot be fractured - only banished from its temple. Relationships hold a different value in my home, even if there is seldom equality among them.
First comes the belief that love never presents itself equally. While one may love another, someone within that bond holds a greater devotion to the mate than vice versa. Only in exceedingly rare occasion do we mark for the measure of love, but it has occurred in some instances where one mate needed reminding of the depthless dedication of their significant other. We usually recognize it somewhat immediately - as long as we listen to our bodies, the indications concerning who holds the larger love becomes evident in seconds. And the larger love is not always the greater, for it is both a sign of weakness in separation and strength in the commitment to such bountiful feelings for someone else. Ultimately, we believe an equal relationship is the myth (although it seems to be common and accepted belief here in the city).
Secondly, relationships among the sexes operate differently and those differences cannot be reconciled. A union between man and woman is considered more fruitful for the body, and somewhat nourishing for the mind. They are held at the highest honor due to their ability to prolong the life of our village. Mostly these types of relationships are encouraged, but we accept secondary and even tertiary relationships to supplement nourishment for our souls. This brings me to the next point concerning the sexes - a relationship with one of the same sex is considered less fruitful for the body, but much more potent for the mind. For example, a woman's primary relationship may lie with a man, but she may have secondary or tertiary relationships with other women for her soul to remain well-kept from a social perspective. And often these relationships resolve themselves and bloom anew, maintaining a flow of connection among us.
However, both our cultures can agree on one thing - when love and interest go unrequited, it unbalances the soul to an alarming degree.
In fact, it resulted in my inability to find a niche.
At that age, someone I knew for a count of years matured in a fashion that attracted me immensely, and he found no want or reason to allow it. I thought I understood this, yet my ability to function in a worthwhile manner diminished to the point where most considered me cursed. The one I spoke of began fostering his own relationships, which only exacerbated the issue. I could not control him. I could not turn his eye toward me. However, I needed to overcome this inhibition if I was to make something of myself beyond my interests in him.
The first suggestion came from my mother - to mark as we seldom do. She recommended I inscribe the rose onto any portion of my body to remind him of the impact and garner some consideration. I knew not what would come of it. I tried at once, impressing the symbol of the rose upon my thigh, but little came of it beyond further alienation. The repulsive force grew far greater than I ever intended, and he withdrew entirely from my presence. Avoidance became a practiced dance for the pair of us - a hunt never resolved, neither prey or predator finding closure. Community meetings grew strained in how we maneuvered ourselves to avoid peripherals alerting us of the other while focusing on the speakers at hand. For as long as I possessed the rose tattoo in sight, the unease only grew greater.
My father suggested I throw myself into every task I was given - to devote so much of my being to these assignments that I have no spare energy for thoughts devoted to him. It worked for a time, with laborious activities that demanded strict timetables for completion. The physical exertion helped to guide my mind toward my body's strains. Yet, whenever I caught glimpse of that rose insignia, the cycle began anew. It eased toward the onset of winter, when the snows demanded long pants and fur coats, and I managed far better success using my father's method. In carpentry alone I nearly earned my mark. In cooking, I managed well with the trappings we caught. Woodcutting and harvesting knew similar successes. My skills branched out at a remarkable pace, and the crippling thoughts of him diminished to the scanty times I caught sight of him around town.
And then I collapsed of exhaustion.
Three days I spent in bed, counting every knot and fleck in the ceiling above my bed and every stitch along the squares of my quilts. My fever grew to astronomical heights. Pneumonia settled in my lungs; I could not rise for more than a few steps before breathlessness claimed all activity. I was crushed by the sudden inability to maintain even rudimentary tasks, and my brother knew it. He visited often with wet rags and medication to clear up the infection in my lungs. He often brought stories of daily happenings around our town, even though I never cared for them prior. However, he much enjoyed learning of others and investigating into their lives, even if intrusive at best. He would share discovered misfortunes of another or budding relationships that he glimpsed when meandering through town, as he was wont to do. And the more he visited, the more I found comfort in the relationship we shared as siblings.
While it never stemmed directly from Slate, his continued devotion to my well-being sparked a different idea to finally rid myself of the crippling feelings that obstructed my progression. I bid him to get me a knife. Dutifully he complied, and returned with one of the ceremonial knives we would later use in our practices. At this time they were impossibly sharp, and quick to draw blood with the softest pressure on skin. I asked for a rag next, and he wordlessly heeded my request. Lastly I offered him direction to sit behind me and roll the rag, then pull it taut across my mouth as a bit for a horse. Again, he obeyed.
And in leaning against him, his skin cool against my fevered flesh, I realized that I would not need a relationship so long as I could foster good standing with my brother. For a long pause I simply sat motionless, watching the swaying room orbit around the pair of us while the encroaching darkness ate through some of my peripheral vision. Still, he asked no questions concerning my plans.
Finally I pulled off the lounge pants for a last look at the rose tattoo. It pained me to know its existence - that it was permanently inscribed upon my body, where my feelings were entombed in red ink and scar tissue. Finally I pressed the flat of the blade just to the side of it, and for a great span of time it lingered there, motionless. By now I recognized that my brother knew the plan. He would not impede me, which was the greatest gift I could ask for at the time. And when my nerves reached their peak, I finally sank the blade beneath my skin for a pain so impossible that it nearly bled the consciousness from my body.
I remember the entire procedure demanding nearly an hour, with all the pauses I took to regather my nerves. The blood pooled out in droves, wetting my quilts and ruining the rest of my bedding. Afterward Slate’s pants wore bloody handprints at the knees from my white-knuckled grip. And when the hour was nearly up, I managed to whittle away a strip of skin containing that rose tattoo, and only a stunted section of it prevented me from wholesale removing it from my body. However, I was near to fainting again, and with the last push of effort, I pulled the loose flap taut and cut through the remaining strip as quickly as strength and speed permitted. Afterward, I passed out.
When I woke, Slate no longer lingered behind me. Instead I found him at my side with a dish towel pressed against my skin, and an opened bottle of rubbing alcohol on the nightstand near the bed. The roaring ache in my thigh nearly sent me back to unconsciousness. But as I tried to prop myself up on my elbows, I realized that the stretch of skin was still gripped impossibly tight in my hand, and I knew my trial had finally abated.
I later tanned and fashioned the skin into a bracelet I wore for many years.
Afterward my life effectively returned to normal, with the addendum of an injury that threatened a slight limp. Healing demanded many weeks, but afterward I managed to find a powerful affinity for hunting and earned my mark soon afterward. I received special accolades for overcoming the crippling weakness of character that plagued me for months prior. I spent many years hunting and claiming kills, patiently filling a necklace of teeth from each victim claimed, which slowly drove me closer to receiving my second hunter’s mark: the mark.
The mark of mastery.
At a thousand kills, it is believed that a hunter thoroughly established himself in Her rapport. The thousand marks as proof for those claims is then taken to the center of our town, where it is hung on a great wooden construct as a declaration of prowess. In return, the hunter receives the second hunter’s mark to inform all who see it of his boundless successes in his trade.
But as I can never return to that place, as I can never face the confirmation of my brother’s death, I will never know that final boon. Even if I claimed a thousand lives of our enemies in Destiny City, I will never know the matching tattoo to balance my features.
It is a disgrace I will bear to the end of my days.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Feb 25, 2015 10:35 pm
Six DegreesWord Count: 1107Quote: Every day spent in libraries of both public and university standard proved exponentially more mind-numbing than the last, and promised fewer leads than before. Most newspaper articles covering the subject of monsters received at least one scan already, and Shale turned to review of what he already discovered, hoping to glean more information, or hope that a fresh pair of eyes (relatively speaking) might help. However, his notepad sat empty, pen untouched, and coffee dwindled to little more than a gulp and a half.
He pursued other routes of the book venue - sometimes mythology received a scan if a particular cover caught his eye, or a creature mentioned within that matched a descriptor for a youma. He checked archaeological books for historical references to youma, or perhaps bones discovered that harkened to one of their species, yet nothing remained in those texts either. Even in turning to soliciting others for information, most within the library confines knew little more about the creatures than he already did, or were loathe to give up leads to those who might know a modicum more than the fact that they were hostile and often had spines.
Shale was starting to think that he should abandon the endeavor entirely, even if his personal motivations urged him on all the more.
While he slowly slogged through day four of local publications, a young man practically collapsed on the opposite side of the table beneath the weight of his recent acquisitions. Books spanning many subjects sat in lopsided piles on his section of the table, with the man barely recovered from his near-disaster. Pushing his glasses up, he offered an apology to those nearby (including Shale himself) for the disturbance. Afterward he took a seat and seemed to collect himself, but before he cracked open one of the myriad volumes, he spared the hunter a second glance. Following that action came a quick compliment on the tattoos.
To which Shale thanked him absently, his thoughts still sprawling over the latest text in hand.
However, the student found no discouragement from carrying on a conversation, even if it remained one-sided. "I've always liked the tribal stuff. Wanted to get one for myself, but my girlfriend told me that she'd dump me in a heartbeat if I got one of those. She wasn't serious, of course, but I was still like, what the hell, I guess I don't need it that bad. But those are super cool, man. Especially the one around your eye. You gonna get more sometime? Actually I shouldn't be bothering you, I got my own studies to get done and they're gonna take eons since I waited until the last minute on all of them."
Shale encountered a twofold problem during the student's lengthy discussion with the quiet man. For one, Shale grew up in an environment quiet enough that he developed no skills for tuning others out. For two, he understood cultural nuances of the area enough to deduce that the student's displayed bashfulness in acknowledging wrongdoing was actually a fishing line cast for some invitation to continue doing so. Seeing as his own studies soured over the past several days, Shale saw no reason to revoke this play for further conversation. "More are welcome, if they come." He elected to omit all of the cultural history behind tattoos, and the name they're given elsewhere, as it held no immediate bearing on the conversation.
"Oh, so you don't have plans to get more?" The man hadn't deigned to touch his books and remained thoroughly fixated on the budding conversation. "Maybe it's not so surprising. I mean, you got tattoos all over you. You've got to be running out of space, right? Have you thought about going for piercings yet? I had a friend with these wicked dermal anchors on her back, and there was ribbon tied through them and the whole nine yards. I think she called it a corset piercing. She loves it though, man. You would not believe how she lit up when she told me it was done. She's kinda over piercings and is looking at tattoos now. You got any recommendations for tattoo artists? Looks like you've seen a few."
I have seen my share, but they are not accessible to outsiders. "I can give you some recommendations." Shale finally closed out the program running on the compute, seeing as he could not accomplish much with the man so readily engaged in Shale's choice of insignias. Instead he settled on writing out some tattoo shops that he investigated during his downtime and passed the paper toward the student, who flashed an overjoyed smile and copious thank-yous.
Finally Shale broached his own curiosities with the chatty man. "Do you know of anyone that has information on the monsters around here?" He added no further explanation to illuminate why he asked - such information would be supplied on request only.
"No, not that I can think of. No one I've been around has run into one of those things and lived to tell about it. Well, wait a sec..." The student leaned forward and rested his chin on the crook of thumb and index finger. "I remember in my art history class, we had this grouchy TA that dressed up like one once. I even heard him speak with a weird accent while he was wearing the costume. He might know something about them. I forgot his name, but he's got this big scar across his face, and he worked for Dr. Schach. You might want to check with his office to find out if that guy still works there. If not, they might know where he's at now. Heads up though, he's not super friendly."
"How do you know he was dressed as a monster, and not a video game character?" How much do you yourself know, he wanted to ask.
The student leaned forward at once. "Cuz the thing he dressed as? I've seen it before. Once. At night. It was walking toward the dorms, and I wasn't sure what it was, so I stopped for a minute and tried to get a closer look. It saw me, though, but it just stood there and stared at me for the longest minute of my life. Then it just kept on going and reached for the dorm doors, then disappeared. Weirdest thing ever, I s**t you not."
Shale blinked slowly. So many books read in hope of finding a lead, and one presents itself arbitrarily from a chance encounter with a student. I should have pursued interacting with others more fully.
"Thank you for the tip." Shale stood abruptly and started to gather his various books, much to the student's mild protests, but he offered a polite nod and well wishes for his studies.
Politeness is starting to wear. I miss living around familiar culture.
After depositing his books on the returns cart, Shale left through the automatic doors to start in the direction of the university, where he might find out about the office for this Dr. Schach and potentially press for information about his TA. It was a long walk, certainly, but one well needed with muscles so stiff from sitting still through the hours.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Mar 02, 2015 5:16 pm
CaïnaWord Count: 920His first greeting upon stepping out the window was a blaring car horn, a long bleating that dropped off immediately and was returned by a slightly lower pitch. Somewhere in the streets beyond, a tire squealed. So many people in so many groups all spoke at once to breed their own cacophony. Exhaust greeted his eyes and nose with its bitter, acrid stench. The city wore its blanket of yellow smog that drew out for miles, obscuring any view of the greenery outside the city - if he could see any beyond the great skyscrapers that loomed overhead. The meager, canny lights from the city's speckled streets entangled their luminance in the dense fog and spread a sickly yellowed glow over the top of everything.
Overall, he felt disgusted with the stagnant pit in which he was to live.
Outside he stood shirtless, but dressed in secondhand pants sporting their own fair scratches and tears for better movement. While he would prefer fewer restrictive articles, Porsha cautioned of wearing too little in a public space, and the cold February evenings permitted no such free antics under their oppressive reign.
Shale leaned against the sill while he studied the lighter in hand, newly obtained from Porsha's kitchen junk drawer as she called it, though the method for working the damnable thing proved obnoxiously difficult. He knew well enough how to work it despite insinuations otherwise, but he found he had better luck with traditional flint and tinder over fighting and potentially skinning his thumb over trying to get a light. Still, with no other option, he fought the highlighter yellow eyesore of a lighter until a meager flame capped the scanty bit of metal at the top. The peeled birch wood was held over the top of it, soaked and wrapped in scraps of cloth to contain the blade, and Shale waited patiently for the fire to take.
If nothing else, this process doesn't risk extinguishing the flame. not until it runs out of... What does it even use. Butane? I'd have to ask her. This one does not look low though, which is the first boon in this day.
The light caught, blazed to life, and settled to a warm and confident ripple of flame barely heard over the roar of city life. For a while, Shale simply watched it flicker and crackle with its steady fuel supply. Slowly he passed the makeshift torch from one hand to the next, freeing up some dexterity to bring the lighter to mouth for him to hold between teeth. The second torch lit by proxy, and with both small sticks sporting flame, he began the slow process of working up to speed by spinning one of the sticks in each hand. The balance to it came quickly, even if he was out of practice for the some weeks that he now lived in Destiny City. The flamed tips rolled over his wrists seamlessly, and soon the ritual behind it took shape.
Moving at a quicker clip now, only the flaming heads of the torches drew most visibility while they licked and slid in bold lines across, around, and behind his body. The steps themselves came easily, each foot carefully maneuvered across the regrettably small space, drawing more of his attention than the balancing act for flames that threatened to burn him should he hesitate a second longer in their passing. The smell of smoke soon banished city fog, the laughter of flame smothering rumbling car engines or clusters of voices.
Once reaching speed, Shale added a measure of boldness to his steps in a practiced sway across the confined area until his wrist clipped the outcropping for the window and the torch shot from his hand. It struck the grated ground precariously close to the yoga mat, then rolled toward the edge where only the fixed bar supporting the railing prevented its outright fall to the sidewalk below. Shale drew a low hiss through teeth as he wholesale abandoned the ritual to fetch the still burning stick.
A quick stamp on both lengths of birch extinguished the flames and he hesitated no longer to bring them inside - smoke alarms be damned.
“There is no space here,” he muttered under his breath. The pair of sticks soon found themselves cast into the sink, where they threatened to blacken the metal basin. Shale himself stopped before the counter where his array of strange tools and reagents still waited for their new home. Fingers returned to his eyebrow ridges; the added pressure of their slow pacing across the skin lent some comforts to a vexed mind.
I cannot stand the stifling laws of this damned city. There are far too many customs, nuances, locations, rituals, tasks, responsibilities, and expectations to fulfill that are too different from what I’m used to. Why do I stay. There is no need. I could live elsewhere, build a cabin somewhere in the woods, go back to the practices I held in complete solitude. I have no need to sit through this war. The Negaverse will find more lieutenants. Why here. Why live here when I cannot even stand it anymore.
A sigh left the man as his hands struck the counter and his gaze angled upward toward the tops of the cabinets. Slate. You are sorely missed. We should have traded places, you and I. You could thrive where I would waste.
I cannot delay this any longer.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Mar 09, 2015 6:14 pm
AntenoraWord Count: 1083For so many years I subsisted on the same beliefs, and now that I've expanded my world beyond the woods, I need to come to terms with what I know. For this past month I've been dutifully fulfilling the quotas handed down to me by the Negaverse, deliberately avoiding all of the changes to my core beliefs that these facts entail.
I would be fool to say my beliefs remain the same.
In truth, some remain, and some are altered. I still believe that our worries circle the body like vultures and pollute our surroundings, and I can still see the soul leaving behind a stench in the human skull, but... No longer does burning the body matter to release the soul to the skies when I can just as easily hold it in my hand as any other precious stone. Blackberry paste no longer holds the same deep values that I was raised on, but the nostalgia is clearly present when used. And nothing of the Negaverse's explanations has touched on the beneficial properties to blood, flesh, bone. But even these slow truths skirt the greater problem that vies for my attention.
I still remember when Slate and I sat on the porch watching the woods, when the storms crowned heavy leaves with backwash. I remember how the shadows clawed at the ground, so sharply contrasted to the candied nuts we shared. And I remember, most clearly, the discussion that the creatures we watched for were no demons, but perhaps just angry gods.
But in truth, they are empty beasts. Cinnabar explained that too much chaos energy pollutes a person, corrupts their bodies into these twisted monsters that attack the earlier versions of their own kind. They will eat other souls or drain energy to perpetuate their existences. From the explanations heard, I gather that these creatures come about through a poisoning, or an overload. If this is a certainty, then there exists a threshold for chaos energy tolerance. I could have become one myself when Xenotime sought to corrupt me, but I did not.
But I am still dodging the most fundamental questions.
I knew the woods as a facet of nature, alive and sentient and so brimming with fortitude that it would sustain itself long after I met my death. Within it, creatures functioned in a level of balance, with that balance ever shifting closer or further away from an incomprehensible midline. We, as participants, would never recognize the midline, even if we possessed the minds to recognize it. Truly, we tried to maintain that balance through all the rituals and habits that we learned when we first drew breath. Once we learned of these monsters that roamed the woods, we feared that our attempts at balance met with drastic failure, and now nature was shifting the midline - but were we wrong?
I mentioned before that one portion of my home tried to reconcile with nature using any ritual or offering they could possibly conceive of, which culminated in the release of any found birthmarked teenagers into those woods. They were sacrifices for Her to take at will, or distribute through Her hierarchies as She saw fit. But... With the explanation provided by the Negaverse, then these monsters exist as no culminations of Her ire. If they are what becomes of us after ingesting chaos energy, then the implications draw that conclusion to more of a roundabout than a direct result.
These creatures are a part of Nature, else they would not otherwise exist. Perhaps they are the result of the weaker succumbing to the adversity that they needed to survive - or an evolution beyond that to account for their weakness. I doubt I will understand the nature of youma in this night alone, for their study might take weeks before I become more acquainted with the truth of their existence.
For an entire month now, I stayed sequestered from more natural surroundings by Xenotime's decision, and the fact that I could not return to my home. Jack taught me that this is not entirely true - that Nature still exists here with the echoed evolutions of rusted metals or decaying buildings, so I am not as far from the woods I knew as I realized. I kept up what laws I knew to maintain balance for myself and my surroundings, and followed what Xenotime commanded of me in exchange for consistent lodging. But now, I must determine why I remain among the Negaverse's ranks - why I do not simply find another place to live and forsake these extra duties that come of it.
I had considered these alternatives many times before - moving into solitude in the woods, returning to my old home, or even finding a place to call my own within the city limits. I have a surfeit of options. I could just as easily abandon my duties if Xenotime has no means of measuring my progress. On the other hand, I could change my living space to any of these alternatives and stay among the Negaverse ranks. But the question of 'why' hangs on both decisions - why stay, why go?
Either party attempts to upset the balance I've been taught to seek. It would make perfect sense to abandon duties and return to the life I knew. Order, our apparent enemies, have their own motivations to attack us, with some seeking protection for strangers entirely unrelated to their daily lives. Others know motivations far beyond that, I am certain. And for the Negaverse, it seeks to harvest energy to exchange with Metallia for power. Beyond that, it seeks to stop Order from interfering with its plans, and subsume their numbers into its ranks. Beyond and around them stand the pedestrians constantly caught in the crossfire, their lives often jarred to provide their own daily stressors for longevity. But when taken from a more distant vantage...
These two sides to the war provide their own balance and nourishment for the entity that is this city. Where strife exists, people thrive. So why should I leave the Negaverse when the opportunity lay within my grasp to contribute to this balance? My life as a hunter taught a great deal toward murder and recompense. These tasks they ask of me are not so different from my old rituals.
This could be my second chance for the crescendo of my career. For this, they will know the unwavering loyalty of the hunter's heart.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue May 05, 2015 9:13 am
A Study in StarsWord Count: 691Babylon City wasn't steeped in igneous rock, or ten feet of sand from the shifting desert, or worn into crumbled rock atop the mountain. It didn't house the normal decay I would expect from my endeavors with Jack. It's possible the buildings were made far sturdier than modern-day construction, but could stone and plaster truly survive a millennium without wearing away? Babylon himself mentioned that the cobblestones straightened after a time, suggesting that magic flexed its influences over the city's state. Even the metal lamp posts hadn't rusted.
I wonder how many other wonders are still standing in good order. And I wonder if mine - assuming one is truly mine - is in similar working condition.
It seems like mostly abstract information - this knowledge of a wonder. If there is some location among the stars that is my domain and mine alone, then what use is it to me if I cannot reach it? Babylon admitted that Chaos holds greater power, but asserted that this place in the cosmos, presumably Jupiter, is at my disposal. I have no want or need of this place, so far as I've come to understand. I would've liked to see it, surely, but that desire is on par with sidetracking to a meadow during hunting season. It amounts to nothing more than a distraction.
Both Babylon and Hvergelmir lacked hostilities toward me. I suspect that, if I ask it of her, Hvergelmir would also show me her Wonder. Ploutonion might take me to his, as well, if I leverage the trip against Negaverse relationships. And what would I find there? A different city to Babylon's, like how Destiny City compares to Rhys' hometown of London? What else could a Wonder be, if not cities or states? So much of Knights and their heritage remains a mystery - with senshi even more so. Is it possible to find one of their kind, lacking hostility, who would show me any parallels to knighthood? Even if I approach without intention of violence, it's not a guarantee that I'll receive any answers. Such methods could raise questions concerning my loyalty to the Negaverse.
And I must ask myself - is it waning?
I must also ask myself - is the war necessary?
There's so much to mull over now, and I've let it pile to a height. My instincts tell me that all of my questions are interrelated - that beginning with one helps to unravel the rest. Knowing if the war is necessary demands more knowledge of the parties involved - and with access to one, possibly two wonders, digging information from their locations might assist in answering that question. And if Xenotime can take me to the Rift regularly, then I might find some information on the Negaverse's history. Benitoite and Zircon had been around for a while, too; if I could solicit their help...
Everything points to digging through the past at this rate. But what experience do I have in deducing these old customs and histories? Babylon mentioned that he saw memories of his ancestor at times, which offers its own thorough advantage. I have nothing of the sort, especially on someone else's Wonder. Especially in the Rift. I need to learn more of archaeology, of anthropology. Even that entails knowledge of where to start.
There won't be pristine wonders in every location I look - assuming that I can visit more than one. Babylon's city proves an easy starting place if i can find him again, with no real sifting required for answers. But the Rift... Who knows how many secrets have weathered away from long years beneath the earth. I might need a professional level of knowledge about extraction just to learn of old customs.
Quenton Marinus might have some answers on where to start. The front desk associate said he assisted in the archaeology department. If he has solid interest in the field, I might be able to get him to help me understand any findings. At least, he should know some reliable resources for learning the trade and its procedures.
Help me understand the stars, Marinus.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jul 05, 2015 2:54 am
Moving Absent the HeartWord Count: 637Shale sighed softly from where he lay spread-eagled on the naked kitchen floor. The boxes mostly sat piled on the countertops or in their respective areas. But here, in the kitchen, the tile still felt cool despite the midsummer heat. The quarters were a little cramped with the island standing so precariously close to him, but it didn’t matter so long as the floor soaked his excess body heat. As he rolled his head to the side, he saw tile give way to the large room that accounted for the living area.
The leasing agent insisted on emphasizing the ‘open floor plan’, which Shale himself only understood after some research. And in the end, he found the higher price tag on the open floor plan to be worthwhile - it allowed for more light, more furniture configurations, and more useable space. If Ploutonion fostered any hangups over apartment design, the one he picked should settle most disputes. With two bedrooms and two bathrooms, he minimized both the need to share and the potential complaints to the best of his ability. Both bathrooms were considered ‘full’ bathrooms, given the presence of a tub shower in one and a regular shower unit in the master. Shale surmised, while the leasing agent had rambled at length on washer and dryer hookups, that if he added a mini fridge and hot plate to the master and allocated that space to Ploutonion, then the man would have literally no reason to leave and bother Shale unless he needed to leave the apartment.
It felt like a good plan at the time.
Now, he realized that he owned very little furniture, which meant borrowing some of Ploutonion’s funds to purchase furnishings for the apartment. This meant that Ploutonion staked a measure of claim in the communal living area, which implied that he could wander out of his enclosure at any time. And considering that, for a reason beyond Shale’s comprehension, he did not outrank his roommate, he knew that he could not impose orders to remain in his assigned area.
With that plan collapsed, Shale intended to spend most of his time holed up in his room or out of the apartment. He didn’t care where. However, he didn’t want to spend time around the undeserving wretch that mewled impetuously when Laurelite bestowed upon him greater power. Even tired, Shale felt his irritation mounting.
But there was much to be done in repacking, and Shale intended to repurpose his aggravation toward more constructive activities. Once he could unpack the kitchen items in their respective spaces, store away his hunting supplies, and arrange some bedroom items accordingly, he could venture out with the cash he saved for useful and decorative purchases. It served as partial motivation to know that his assignment was to watch the man for any signs of treachery, and that his loathing was of great use. He harbored no intentions toward outright screwing the man over, but any suspicious activities would be reported promptly and with gusto.
Yet, that perk failed to make up for the bulk disappointment of the assignment. He still left Porsha’s perfectly amicable living space to room with someone that he actively disliked.
Finally the hunter unearthed himself from the floor. His muscles ached with a marked soreness, and his grip felt weak from carrying heavy boxes for the bulk of the day. He was hungry, and yet while so blinded by his dislike for his future roommate, he forgot to prepare lunch ahead of time. If he wanted to eat, he needed to go out.
Shale loosed a seething sigh between clenched teeth. Finally he resigned himself to food of any questionable quality, and used the new key to lock the door behind himself when he left in search of sustenance.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Aug 08, 2015 11:45 am
One Cannot Commit to Worthless ChoresWord Count: 653Ochre. The name sounded foreign in his thoughts, but not for how often he considered his brother - the name sounded much like any Negaverse name. It commanded power and respect by its nature as a mineral. Umber recognized Ochre as a pigment that occasionally grew toxic in appearance, poisonous, and demanded caution thusly. But to think of his brother, Slate, as Ochre?
Perhaps that title was a misnomer.
His ill fit in the Negaverse finally reared up in a show of disobedience. Umber should've seen it looming on the horizon long before it bloomed, but preoccupation with his plans of securing Sandrine as an ally demanded more of his attention. He knew, too, that his brother's participation was often consolatory - no battle would find tide turned with the presence of Ochre. But before Umber could hope to reform his younger brother's uselessness, there stood the question of how to rein him back from actively harming Negaverse routines. His imprisonment helped somewhat, surely; basic conditioning suggested that punishment reformed behaviors somewhat.
But what if nothing came of this trial? What if Ochre simply learned to play along and win his way out of the cage only to resume his typical behavior? Umber imagined that his repeated transgressions would be dealt with in increasingly severe manners until Laurelite herself deigned that he is better fit as a youma and forcibly commanded. But Ochre possessed curious magic that may turn tides in a battle - could the General-Queen really afford to waste that potential by reducing him to a youma?
Even if she could, Umber preferred that his brother finally fall in line first.
Traditional jailing and prisoners of war seemed the first outlet to search for reforming Slate. Umber knew he could cause little harm when stewing in that solitary, fetid cell, so ample time spent locating different means of psychological reconditioning would not find great repercussion here. The library should have some resources. Porsha might be of use for searching the internet. He also knew a surfeit of officers who may support him in this role - Cinnabar, Schörl, and Benitoite to name a few.
Umber sighed, and closed his eyes momentarily. The chair he sat in felt ages old, and equally uncomfortable. It creaked and groaned with every movement, which filled the hall beyond the network of cells. Occasionally it sounded louder than the perpetual hoarse yelling that emanated from Ochre's vicinity. And in those moments, Umber wondered why he could distance himself so easily from this situation when he couldn't before. What changed? He wasn't particularly fond of feeling bad over someone else, which he admitted honestly, but what gave him the strength to separate so fully from the people around him? Was it Chaos in tandem with his conditioning as a hunter? He wasn't certain, but he wanted to impart it on Ochre for the benefits it might have.
Before Umber rose, he asked himself a pointed question that gave pause to all outward stimuli. He no longer heard the creak of chair, nor the desperate pleas from his brother's cell. Were he any less of a man, he might find it unnerving. Instead he found it poignant and deserving of consideration. Humming thoughtfully, he rounded the chair and departed toward the exit to the main halls with his brother's taunts at his back. That question alone determined his path. It determined Ochre’s fate, and Umber’s path in his servitude to the Negaverse.
Was it really worth it to try?
And when Umber considered his potentially successes in how they might apply this result to other officers of the Negaverse, he thought with finality that, yes, it deserved his efforts and time. Perhaps he would not do so for his brother alone, but if he could banish these doubts and inhibitions for other worthwhile officers, then he found himself driven to try.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Aug 08, 2015 12:07 pm
Packing Paltry ParcelsWord Count: 598Perhaps it came as no surprise that science alone spared no answers. Skinner and Freud both gave insights that proved useful, but failed to carve out a better mindset for his brother. Pavlov only contributed more damage. Watson and Rayner contributed their own findings to the reconditioning, but those alone found difficulty in sticking. He went beyond that to Beck’s cognitive behavioral conditioning, but found the process long and dull and himself lacking formal training for proper enforcement. The studies performed, the results gained stretched for miles in the short-lived world of psychology, and Umber knew any attempt executed in their names stood as poor testament to lack of formal education.
And he was not the only person to try his hand at reconditioning Ochre for better use. ‘Cyllene’ read as the name at head of Ochre’s punishment, and a sign-in list intended for all visitors and jailors indicated quite the handful of participants. Differing ranks, differing associations each paid him visits, and found progress only in reducing Ochre to a more pitiful and worthless state. He no longer railed against the Negaverse verbally, and wrote about it far less, but Slate’s pathetic mewling for food and sunlight and intellectual stimulation left Umber more flustered than empathetic.
Umber also considered simpler means, beyond the Pavlovian reinforcement of privileges awarded for energy gathered. He tried to implement a routine, starting with waking Ochre at a particular time each morning, regimented food hours, a midday energy-draining exercise, and routine patrol at night. He found that it helped significantly with his brother’s aimless dolor but it never quite enforced any respect or even tolerance for the Negaverse. Umber witnessed the keen derision aimed toward him with each energy orb surrendered to the older of the brothers.
But, he realized, chaos and magic held ancient tricks untouched by scientific method and personal dichotomy. Chaos shaped as it would - Umber knew it in the subtle changes seen when Cinnabar grew in rank. He knew it in the way that Generals never quite struck him the same as his peers, or Lieutenants. He knew it further still when he compared his current self to how he behaved as a basic officer. Chaos changed irrevocably.
Chaos even changed his simpering, meek roommate, though he failed to see how.
Beyond chaos came magic - a poorly understood phenomenon with seemingly endless results and tidings. The Negaverse possessed little of it beyond the scope of corrupted senshi and their own abilities to teleport and wrench starseeds, but the Dark Mirror housed its own slew of curious magics. His own personal alliances might be the only facilitation toward rehabilitating his brother, which both disturbed and exasperated him further. Was he doomed to rely on someone else to fix the problems he so desperately wanted solved? No - there had to be means he could explore of his own magical capabilities first. Any forays into the Dark Mirror’s abilities would wait.
At least, he noted, his introspection earned a modicum of direction here. His first thoughts were to ask after a promotion for his brother - and perhaps that action seemed backwards and counter intuitive. He hoped Laurelite would find merit in the idea, for if further chaos could augment his thought processes, then perhaps with additional time in the cell and continued behavioral reconditioning, the problem would sort itself out. Regardless, such a daring move bought time while he figured his way into easier, more applicable fixes in situations like these.
And given what magic he could wield… Only starseeds held the answers now.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Aug 16, 2015 6:54 am
10,000 IdeasWord Count: 638The months of research served their purpose. Meticulously Umber delved through behavioral reconditioning books and torture texts for answers toward molding the human psyche to something he saw as more useful to the Negaverse. During that time, Cyllene herself and various other appointed officers attempted to force Ochre into a more amenable position - but each time the boy met them with stubborn resistance that only marched him further toward a fate beyond death. Umber sometimes worried for these moments, as he knew not how long Laurelite's patience would last, but providence left him at a slowly building advantage. The more time he spent studying different avenues, the more he realized that such avenues would demand a count of years to cement the changes he desired. He found fortune in recognizing that these paths grew nonviable before embarking too heavily on their enactment.
And in learning from other officers, knights, and senshi, Umber recognized that the power he desired may indeed be latent in the magic that enabled such a life. He suspected that senshi themselves might possess power great enough to permanently alter one's mind, and he hoped to investigate that with renewed fervor, but Mintaka's careful reveal that such powers were only found in royals soon shot that decision down. Umber agreed with certainty that any royal brought near his brother would make an attempt to purify him - and succeed. Such a route proved more counterproductive than death or youmafication.
So what routes were left to him after both magic and behavioral conditioning were shut down? Umber could only imagine two: chaos investigation and starseeds. Chaos, he knew, created perfectly obedient beings when its energy overloaded and shattered a starseed. The human form then devolved into a monster, as he learned from Benitoite, and that monster was fated to listen to authoritative voices within the Negaverse.
Starseeds held the very soul of the person in question, and tampering with Slate’s starseed undoubtedly heralded severe side-effects. Before he even considered a method to enact upon him, Umber needed to be certain that its effects were tried and tested, and that he knew little harm would come of the operation. in order to do so, he knew that he needed significantly more research toward Chaos and its manipulations on starseeds. And while Chaos energy was in no short supply for these occasions, starseeds proved their own special scarcity. If he were to attempt this undertaking, then Umber required far more starseeds than the meager few he found with Amphitrite’s assistance. They proved useful for rudimentary studies, but in the case of manipulating the starseed itself… Umber needed powered starseeds.
And in order to obtain those, he needed to enlist the assistance of far more officers than the couple peers that found merit in listening to him. He needed Laurelite’s approval for an operation, he needed generals to act as heads of the operation, and he needed a great many members of the Negaverse to carry out the tasks provided.
And he needed a plan.
A location came to mind in due speed, and he knew of a few officers to ask for heading the operation - Schörl, Cinnabar, and Benitoite to name a few. Still, that left planning the tactical strike, containing said strike, managing any senshi threat that happened upon their mission, safeguarding against any possible setback, and then presenting all information to Laurelite for her final approval. That road grew long and arduous, but Umber expected it yielded the most fruit for his long and bleary journey to an answer for his brother.
The effort would prove itself worthwhile, he knew. Once he found an answer, his brother would find glorious purpose in the Negaverse.
And, if his plans played out well, so would any officer that required a little behavioral reconditioning.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Sep 05, 2015 5:43 am
10,000 CursesWord Count: 578The cleaning began hours ago.
Yesterday, in fact, he realized as he looked at the clock. 3:06AM flashed obstinately at him, and he tried to ignore it. All the lights in the bathroom still blazed brightly, and Shale’s head pounded with the exhaustion that chased every blaring bulb in the house. But as each fluorescent beat down against the nigh immaculate tile floor, Shale’s snowblind tendencies spotted yet another fleck of blood that he missed. He even resorted to taking frequent breaks to look at separate surfaces, but ultimately exhaustion proved his worst downfall.
As he sat back onto his heels to wring out the bleach-soaked rag in a bucket of ruddy red, he examined his handiwork with detail in mind. A few splotches and splatters escaped still, but they lingered on the perimeter of his regimented cleaning exercises. The cabinets sported none of the mess, so Damian hadn’t touched them since returning home, but it seemed a small boon in comparison with precisely how much the pair needed to clean. The latter half of the floor revealed bloody footprints, a ruined bath mat, and further stains on porcelain and shower curtain. Luckily the shower curtain could be thrown out at little cost to them - and Damian had the money to replace what he wrecked.
Inwardly he hoped Damian learned how to direct arterial spray in the future.
Or shower somewhere else.
Shale then looked at his hands, reddened from flow of blood and work alone more than staining from the mess. The disposable plastic gloves bought for the job handled most of the cleanliness, and the brillo pad he used for the bleach solution hadn’t often torn any pairs. Crouching in a poorly ventilated room with a high concentration of bleach on a hot day enacted a considerable toll on the hunter, and in looking at the rest of himself, he noted the raised veins for cooling. A stomachache begun where he hardly ever endured any previously, which he attributed to the caustic smell of the chemicals.
He reminded himself that after the floor came the tub, then the shower walls, then the living room carpet, then the couch, then the entryway where Ashanite so thoughtfully teleported in. He already reminded the bluenette once that his contributions in cleaning the bathroom were a declaration of solidarity to a fellow Negaverse officer, and not personal to Damian (though he found that following Laurelite’s directive to be kind to his new allies was much too difficult). However, the carpeted portions of the house were his responsibility to clean - they proved the most difficult to rinse clean, and they may need to pay for new carpeting in the end, but Damian would surely learn the mistake in teleporting directly home when doused in blood.
And in the interim, Shale would quietly curse his lot in living with a newly-corrupted officer, mentoring another newly-corrupted senshi, and having passed off a third newly-corrupted individual. Of all these people that now stood as his peers, why was it that none of them held adequate leadership ability or knowledge of the Negaverse to function properly in their assigned roles?
Shale could not hope to understand Laurelite’s thoughts on the matter, nor would he question them outright. He did, however, hope that her show of good faith would not peter out into lukewarm officers.
But, by the state of his bathroom… It was looking like Ashanite headed directly for Disappointment Row.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Sep 05, 2015 5:44 am
10,000 FailuresWord Count: 686It's been some time since I've written. My duties demand so much of my time that I haven't been able to write out my path.
To start, my brother is now, and has been, a prisoner of the Negaverse. He brought this on himself. Had he not interfered with my plans, he would be free among our ranks. There are times when I wonder if this path was for the better - if he did not interfere, would he have betrayed us by now in a more meaningful way? Would he number our enemy's ranks? I read what I could of his journal, and it confirms as much. He is convinced he hates me. That's fine. He doesn't need to love or even like me for what I intend to do.
I've since been researching how to recondition officers to behave as intended. Sometimes it involves impossible measures like neural pathways that I don't fully understand or breeding in order to incorporate a new receptor into the human body. These efforts don't seem to help with the Negaverse agents we currently have. And while I check into behavioral modification, I am aware that Eternal Sailor Cyllene heads the attempts to punish him. So far in our collective efforts, I've found nothing to suggest that normal behavioral modification can be applied to all officers and Cyllene has successfully ruined any happiness Ochre might've had in his decision. One of us is making progress. Unfortunately, this meant I needed to change my approach to my mission.
I needed a universally applicable means to recondition an officer. Not just Ochre. Any given officer has the propensity to disobey the Negaverse when they find their personal values at odds with the organization's. I looked into magic, then, knowing the effects of Warhol's effect on myself as well as Elsa's magic enacted on Ochre. Unfortunately, the Negaverse owns few senshi among its ranks to employ for this endeavor, and as I learned from the Mirror senshi Mintaka, most magical effects do not persist for the lasting effects that I need. Even if I constrain the magic I sought down to occult efforts usable by officers, that leaves me energy draining, starseed ripping and corruption. Even now, when I look at this list, I can't imagine the usefulness of it in the context that I require.
Corruption proves out of my reach to explore. As a captain, I hardly have the strength to press chaos into anyone’s body. The sole attempt I made left me drained for the rest of the day, and the only mark of my success was a small feral youma that soon left me to my exhaustion. Chaos is much too volatile for me to experiment with, and each attempt leaves me far too drained to even observe the results. I am certain Xenotime would assist in this endeavor, but she had mentioned her inability to corrupt Ochre in the first place I expect, then, that only General-Sovereigns are able to investigate corruption for behavioral modification. And is that truly the best use of their time?
Energy draining is being investigated given the enchantment on Ochre’s cell bars. I do not know what they might use the energy for - if they intend to administer the energy to Ochre and see if it influences his behavior, offer him energy from another source, or drain him as a means to become complacent. If there are more uses for energy draining in the vein of behavioral modification, I do not see them right now. I may never see them.
There have been a handful of willing faces among the Negaverse ranks that volunteered to assist me in studying starseeds, however. Amphitrite was the first to help in acquiring and studying starseeds, though we both found it far beyond our abilities to research adequately. Aurostibite, Mintaka’s lover as I later learned, also volunteered his services on both parts. It is a start to this venture, where others have demonstrated less promise. Currently energy draining and starseeds remain my current investigations for this goal. I hope they offer promising results.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Sep 05, 2015 7:08 am
An Announcement to NowhereWord Count: 522”Ochre.”
No response returned to him but his own, echoed back among the bleak and cavernous maw.
Umber surrendered no objection. From where he crouched, his brother looked exhausted. Deep streaks of black ringed his eyes where none used to linger. He imagined that imprisonment exacted a great cost from the usually free-spirited youth. The cell spared no sense of comfort within its confines - the cot he laid upon offered only the barest of satisfaction for sleeping, which explained why Ochre so often looked pained when lying on it. The floors appeared not quite dirtied, but caked with a layer of dust that suggested disuse. The walls showed similar neglect, as did the crystals that provided meager lighting for the cell itself.
Umber knew that if he touched the crystal over his own head, the single useful lightsource in the area would cease to chase the darkness. He considered doing so many times over the course of his stay, if only to see whether Ochre woke or simply considered it a helpless fact of life in the Negaverse cells.
The latter, he wagered, sounded most reasonable.
“If you’re awake, you don’t have to respond. If Cyllene hadn’t told you, I have been looking into ways to rectify your situation. It doesn’t matter if they’re to your liking. You are aware that, as a part of the Negaverse, it is your duty as an individual to make yourself useful for the organization you serve. You are also aware that you’ve failed to do so. Any decision on your part to consciously reform has been thereby revoked. But as your brother, I will still tell you what will come of your life now that you’ve surrendered it to our whim.
“I am starting on starseed research for reformation purposes. This demands a high volume of starseeds without tapping into the ones currently held by the Negaverse. Investigating their usefulness to this extent is a sacrifice, one that Laurelite has sanctioned despite the loss of energy in the investigation, but it is for the sake of rehabilitating unruly officers like yourself. As one of the primary targets for this experiment, you will participate in collecting starseeds. You do not have to like it. And from what one of the Generals tells me, you will be working with Amphitrite.
“Don’t disappoint her.” The captain sighed inwardly. He was uncertain whether Ochre truly heard him at all, but he imagined by the rhythm of his breathing that the redhead was aware of his words. He offered no outward response, which Umber took as a defense mechanism from prior experiences.
“You will be roused when it’s time to begin the operation. General Brimstone has organized it and will be overseeing it remotely. You will perform as ask and get rewarded, or you will continue to disappoint us and suffer for it. Choose well, Ochre.”He stood afterward and turned from the cell entirely. For a moment he thought he heard movement, but he did not hesitate long enough to risk looking back.
Be well, Slate. Whether as yourself or as youma.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Sep 06, 2015 3:06 am
10,000 SplintersWord Count: 735His experiment required no more than one civilian. Someone unnoticeable, someone relatively insignificant suited his purposes most. He considered all kinds - the social detritus like whores, drug dealers, drunks and vagrants came as first options, based on common Negaverse disdain for these types. Night life stars like club goers and dancers were a secondary evaluation for their prevalence. Additionally he considered night shift attendees like truck drivers and construction workers. Each held their own promise, with a handful bearing risk based on surroundings, connections, or uncontrollable variables.
Of course, the prevalence of each of these targets chased him just the same, and Umber settled for the construction types who now worked on one of the major thoroughfares for Destiny City. Given the city's dwindling tourist attractions, not many used that road out, but enough worked outside of the city proper to warrant construction taking place in the dead of night. Umber cared little for this, as the blazing lights set up on generators proved problematic in stealing away one of the construction workers from their posts. One jackhammered continually to fine tune some of the pavement, which created enough of a noise distraction to cover any descent from the overpass he crested. The captain peered from his perch, judging the severe drop and the angle at which he'd have to land to avoid broken bones.
One of the workers called for assistance further down, gesturing toward a heavy piece of equipment that pounded down the blacktop with a massive sheet of metal. A handful followed, leaving behind both the jackhammer man and another man that fought to repair one of the recently struck road signs. Umber followed his cue and dropped to the stretch of dirt where no pavement would impede him.
Neither worker took notice of his actions. Umber sprinted for the man with the sign, seized him around waist and clapped a hand over throat to silence objection. His captive squirmed violently, retaliated with an elbow aimed blindly toward Umber's face, and clawed at the hand that restricted his screams. Variants of cussing filtered through, but seldom with enough volume to cap the droning jackhammer. And with a target this particularly difficult, Umber wasted little time in trying to haul the man backwards toward the shadow of the overpass.
His charge attempted a profusion of ways to slip from grip, ranging from attempting to sit to trying for throwing his attacker off and over his back. The sole method available to the captain for immobilizing this man without killing him involved pressing a chaos-tempered hand through his back with fingers circling the very core of his being .This stilled him somewhat through the pain of it, and a hand physically within the worker garnered enough shock to stop his emphatic resistance. The shadow of the overpass then engulfed the pair, leaving the captain in proper darkness for his work.
The hand in the man’s back soon tightened with concentration, and the newfound pain erupted from the target in a ragged scream that barely found resistance in the hand around his neck. The jackhammering continued. Concentration urged a force of thick, virulent darkness down the arm of the agent, demanding from him every fleck of strength in his body to ferry such an iniquitous force down his arm and into his target’s back. It never quelled the screaming. Instead, the worker’s voice amplified, distorted, and compressed into an unearthly wail - one that even Umber could not withstand impassively - and before the captain could cut off the flow of volatile chaos, a thick surge of it sprung out from him unmitigated and shattered the gripped starseed into splinters.
Umber did not let go of a construction worker then, but a creature combining a snake’s tail with a beetle’s upper body. It stood no taller than three feet. Before Umber could deliver orders to banish it to the Rift, the creature shot from its confines toward the jackhammering noise.
And Umber himself could not see beyond the firecracker stars of exhaustion. He collapsed soon afterward, oblivious to the unfolding furor.
When he woke, night was still deep. The jackhammering ceased, and no one lingered around the construction site. An ambulance sounded somewhere in the distance, which Umber took as his cue to depart from the area.
Corruption, it seemed, was far beyond his skillset as a potential means to control behavior.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
