Topturn's Tome: Aosoth, the Fire Girl | Page 1 | Summoners' Tomes | Guild Forums

Edward Fauste
Captain

Offline

Posted: Fri Oct 16, 2009 7:19 pm

User Image - Blocked by "Display Image" Settings. Click to show.

cert

This journal is private. Unless you have Topturn's permission, you may not post here.

Summoner
Isaac Hurse
Demon
Aosoth, the Fire Girl
Reason
To save his sister's life
Date of Summoning
16 October 2009

Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 10:59 pm

❝.o1 ɦσσƒвεąτ, cαω, αη∂ τнuη∂εʀ❞

.welcome to hell.

⇨ this is how it starts.

The sky is ill.

Streaks of putrid orange glow cast by the pollution of a thousand souls mar the darkening sky.

The demon wrath is at his door.

⇨under construction.

Topturn

Offline

Topturn

Offline

Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 11:10 pm

❝.o2 мαηiƒεѕτ ∂εѕτiηy❞

.mercy should make us ashamed, wrath afraid to sin.

⇨ these are my demons. look at them, demoning.

general information.

⇨ she has your soul, you know.

Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 11:22 pm

❝.o3 ѕącʀσѕąηcτ❞

and this child I would destroy
if you tried to set her free

⇨ the story of the demon.

The bones breaking and cracking like they do, twisting out of place and into her lines, the way she wants them, the way she wants her doll to move. Girl makes them like this because they resist less, or at least she thought so until the first one froze up real stiff on her afterwards like she'd seen a pig do after her mother smashed its brain in 'cause they only had enough feed for two pigs, not three. They'd moved inward soon after that, into the other country, not the kind with few buildings and one or two trees that our ancestors planted here. Mama never told her they'd only done it because that was how you claimed land back then; some old man had written a law way higher. He sure must've liked trees she'd said, and Mama had laughed for a long time. This kind of country was the opposite of where she had come from. There were people and buildings everywhere, and hardly any animals, but you worked just as hard to keep yourself out of trouble, Mama said.

Creak, and the rope tightens. Frown, and try to move it around while it's still fastened around the doll's neck, tighter than any boy scout could ever make it 'cause they don't teach 'em like they do where she comes from. The whine of the rope is a whole lot like the one you get when you hop on a saddle really slow, heavy and dragging over the horse's back, a lazy sort of sound that rips out from the old leather like it can't be bothered to give in to you. Girl's frown only increases. She can't have lazy rope, and she sure wishes it wasn't rope anyhow because rope necklaces aren't as pretty as the ones she made before she came here. Everybody in the new country said you weren't suppose to do things like that, but she didn't really understand why after Mama had put so much effort into teaching her how, yelling and snapping like an angry little dog until Girl got it right.

The doll looks at her with dull eyes -- watery eyes. Dead eyes, she'd heard them called, but they bothered her Mama a lot more than they ever had Girl. Mama used to throw the pig head behind the front door and tell her to go look after it, do something with it, gather up what spilled out so she could paint her dolls. It's thicker than the stuff they come with Mama said, and thought she could never really tell the difference with her fingers, her Mama said it so it had to be right. Girl, go get your bowl, the one with Tinkerbell on the bottom, and grab her real doll, the Raggedy Ann she carried around with her because she was too little to play with the big ones Mama made her. Gathering up the red stuff, she'd scoop it with her hands or a spoon; whatever she could find would do, as long as she got over to Mama, snatching it up crazy like the people in the new country always said she was. Shouldn't be raising a little girl, the woman's a nut, named the kid Girl for chrissake, she'd heard. Girl supposed everyone had started agreeing about that whole nut thing when they took Mama away, put Girl up with new country people that made her eat her vegetables and didn't let her scoop the red stuff out of their pork. They'd yelled at her for it, even. Said something about, “You ain’t supposed to touch Blud like that with your hands.”

That was about when she started thinking these new country people were the ones that were crazy.

She whistles low and out of tune, a note like she's humming more than actually pushing air through her lips too dry to make a sound anyway. It helps her pass the time, lets her shuffle back to the janitor's closet in the dark in her white pajamas, dig through the tools in the bottom where she found the rope and pick out the pliers she knew she'd find in the rusty metal box. A shuffle back, she's facing her dolls, and the four she's yet to tame squirm about uselessly because their feet can still touch the ground, but it's not like they can move anything with their necks all broke like that. They sway a little bit, and Girl smiles the smile she'd give the pig, the one she would give a child, dull and simple and a gaping, slacked jaw. Her smile that means she thinks you just won't understand, because she's bigger than you, because she said so, just like her new country mother always did.

Girl wiggles her toes an rocks back and forth on them, still making that sort-of whistle through her teeth while she looks over her doll's fingers, and it jerks -- stupidly, Girl thinks – disobedient, swinging about by its neck like a toddler trying to get his shirt over his head. Girl stills the doll without thinking about it, clipping its nails to her liking, nicking the fingers more than once and frowning when the Blud stuff that comes inside is still flowing out and the doll whines.

“The doll ain’t proper unless it won't flow, unless you have to hold it upside down and shake it for it to come out,” Mama said, because that's gravity like she learned in first grade before she stopped going to school.

A girl shouldn't be strong like that, talk like that, move like that, 'cause it just ain't right for her to be stronger than our son and killing rabbits in the back yard, hanging them up for the neighbors to see. I know she's ours but that crazy kept her for so long, she just ain't right any more.

Girl sat down and listened patiently then, thinking how pretty a doll some of the nurses would be while everyone sat all nervous next to her and talked about her right in front of her face, Girl thinking about how her Mama had set this all up real nice for Girl to play. She liked it here, wanted to be here. They stuck her in a room and told her that everything would be okay -- she smiled and said,

“I know.”

They gave her that look like she did to them when they did something really new country, really odd.

Night came one time and she didn't see anybody else but the four dolls she had now -- two nameless, two she knew -- because they all got new country holidays unlike her. Criss-mass they called it, and everyone was gone enough that you had nothing better to do than be sympathetic to a nutjob like her.

One of the nurses came in, let Girl outside because she really didn't act all that crazy, or maybe the nurse is just stupid, 'cause she smiles at Girl stupid and orders around stupid like Mama did when Girl was little. See where that got her, got the fat guard that brings Girl candy sometimes too, the one that likes to watch Girl smile because she reminds him of his own daughter that's too busy with friends to talk to him any more – he’s always reminding Girl of Mama ‘cause he’s just too nice sometimes.

The alarm above her head flashes duller and duller every time, more because she just doesn't notice it than anything else. She moves on to the next, clips off fingernails and whatever else with less care than ever and waits for the men to come busting down the door to take her away to somewhere else where they really lock her in this time, like last time and the time when she was twelve and her mother helped her get out and hang those dolls. Maybe they should just fry her someone said, but she got a little better every time and there's just so much hope in the new country for people like her.

The door slams open finally she hears, and Girl turns around with a look that says she's been waiting and where have you been young lady, I got a job for you.

It's only one officer at first that stops and stares at her pretty dolls, so beautiful in Girl’s mind, swaying in the flickering glow of the lights above the secretary's desk where they hang. The doll of the guard flails towards the officer, who turns away to be sick. Girl ignores this, ignores the officer almost completely except for her face that Girl thinks is perfect, shuffling forward in her pajamas with slow steps, the pliers open in her palm, flat against her hand like she doesn't know what to do with them. But Girl does, turning the officer towards her ‘cause she’s too shocked to really move away, looking up at Girl all disgusted with such a perfect face that Girl knows will look a lot better relaxed and cold.

She doesn't normally kill this way, but for the officer, the imperfect eyebrows and Roman nose, marked skin that's hardly perfect to anybody else, hardly pretty like the nurse, hardly fat and comical like the night guard barely hanging there by his great weight straining the rope necklace Girl tied so carefully. She drives the pliers deliberately slowly, a squelch and her hand is covered in the paint you find inside – it’s perfect for dolls, Mama said -- soft warmth of a liver she just wants to rip out with her bare hands like so many pigs’. It's worth it to do it this way, with the Blud her Mama couldn’t stand warm running over hands, worth it even though now the others have an excuse to shoot her down, excuse for the hot pain searing through her that she knows is going to kill her too.

It’s so worth it when the doll looks just like Girl remembers Mama.

When she wakes up, hot and surrounded by fire that he approaches. His feet are sharp and don't bend quite right, skin black like soot, eyes bright with something that can't quite be called light. He's got this wicked grin that Girl would like to sew shut and she knows that he knows that somehow, and he looks impressed. He says to her,

"Where have you been young lady, I got a job for you," and Girl smiles and says,

"I know."

Topturn

Offline

Topturn

Offline

Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 11:28 pm

❝.o4 נεѕτεʀ σƒ τнε cσuʀτ❞

for i see what i destroy
i can see what i've begun

⇨ summoning is a long and arduous process

His name was Isaac Hurse, and it was his fault that his little sister was dying.

The day blood test came back, he and his sister Philippa had gotten into a fight. His parents were always paying attention to her because she was sick, he said, but she wasn't so special. He was better than her, and he knew it -- he did better in school, sports, and he was prettier than her too with her sunken eyes and papery skin that seemed to hang off of her body like a dirty rag -- she was just faking it for attention. She wasn't that sick. She'd be fine.

"You're a perfect match," the doctor had said, placing a hand on a 10-year-old Isaac's knee. "We can do a transplant, or we can fight it the hard way. It's your choice, Isaac, your body. Your parents can't tell you what to do, and I can't do anything if you say no, but it would be much easier on your sister for you to do this for her. You'd be saving her life, and a lot of hardship."

He'd looked the doctor directly in the eye then, brimming with rage as his sister refused to look at him in her hospital bed, and said with all the bitterness swelling inside of him:

"Let her suffer."

He was 17 now, and she was 13, and he didn't think his parents would ever forgive him for that. He'd refused for seven long years, watched his sister whither away to the point where it no longer mattered what Isaac did. She could have every organ in his body and she'd still die. Somehow, still, she held on. His father stopped talking to him when he was twelve, told Isaac one last time to do it or he was no son of his. His mother still ran through the motions, sad eyed and mourning for Philippa's living ghost, dropping broccoli onto his plate and asking him about his day mechanically, dull.

He'd bled from his legs, his wrists, a slice from his chest to his naval -- all of the places glowing and healthy like a teenager should be, nothing like his sister. She had twenty-four hours maybe, the doctor had said, and Isaac had panicked. This was the only way to make it better, he knew. The only way to repent.

She came to him then.

"Rise fool, for I am Ira who is known to you as Wroth, your greatest sin, and shall be called Aosoth by you. What would you have done?"

⇨ only performed by idiots.

Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 11:31 pm

❝.o5 ∂εviℓ 'ѕ ƒσσ∂❞

i'll tap into your strength and drain it dry
can never have enough

⇨ please, sir

The contract is simple -- to save his sister Philippa from her sickness. In return, his family will have no memory of him, and his soul will be at Aosoth's mercy after his death, becoming her servant in hell for no less than 200 years. While he is alive, he must collect blood for her, from humans, animals -- anyone or thing she picks, though he is not always required to kill. He is, in vulgar terms, a hitman of the demon Wrath.

⇨ sign on the dotted line.

Topturn

Offline

Welcome to Gaia! ::

Gaia Guilds

✖§ DAEMONOLGIE § ✖

Quick Reply

More Information