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 Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 12:44 am
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 12:42 pm
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“Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.”
- Albert Einstein
KEEPER
Name: Ezekiel North
Age: 19
Intended Faction: Imperial Guard
Region: Mishkan
Text: #708090
Hair: Dark Brown ; a little past shoulder-length and gathered into a ponytail
Eyes: Opal
Sex: Male
Scent: Gunpowder and Sausages
Height: 5'11
Zodiac: Gemini
cool drawing by zanaroo, thanks!
Personality:
Ezekiel suffers from a neurodevelopmental disorder nowadays referred to as autism. As a young child, his father told him that he was given a blessing to be a hard worker, and that Ezekiel could accomplish anything he wanted, once he put his mind to it. Due to this focus, he is very introverted, and once started on crafting a weapon, his mind will not meander until completion. Even on a rare stroll through town, Ezekiel will be scribbling new concepts and designs of triggered weapons on any surface he can find, ignoring the cries of vandalism around him.
Ezekiel is socially impaired due to his impulsive fascination with weapons and little time spent outside of his workshop. Because of his background in the field and his vast knowledge of weaponry, he often compares hardships in life with dilemmas faced in the martial world. From stray cats to lost wallets, anything can be instantly synonymous with triggers, flints, and rifling. Ezekiel does not feel safe out in the open without a weapon at his side (preferably one with a barrel). An unlucky passer-by has more than one occasion found himself on the wrong end of the North boy’s weapons. This has instilled a sense of caution to the Mishkan folk when dealing with North. Ezekiel’s experience with weapons makes him a popular gunsmith among the townsfolk, though he does seem aware of the attention he receives. Many a hunter or marksman would frequent his workshop for hours to converse on the relatively new topic of shooting. These relationships are only between client and seller and nothing more. Only a handful of Mishkans have successfully formed bonds with the young man, and they are limited to his family members. He finds it difficult to bond with people because they are unpredictable, and he is frustrated by this, for no pattern can determine a person individually.
Despite that Ezekiel is socially impaired, he is nonetheless still fascinated by society because he does not understand many things about the people around him, for instance, why they would repeat the same mistake in some things, but not in others. Gradually, he begins to question members of society, which appears as Ezekiel attempting a connection of some sort when really he is researching why others respond differently than him. (He'd ask a cripple why the cripple did not choose to walk.)
Despite his shortcomings as a friend, Ezekiel has made countless sales to a plethora of customers. His opinion is trusted, as he has fired virtually every weapon on the market; he is not doubted when his master claims that the young North knows each model inside and out. . Ezekiel’s apprenticeship to Mikhail Enfield, a gunsmith, also lands him opportunities to forge new, unique weapons to his liking. These weapons are all carefully built up, carved, forged, and assembled, and while on the workbench are the only things on Ezekiel’s mind. This infatuation with precision and detail is a hallmark of North’s ideals, to never stop building until absolute perfection has been achieved. His mother and father claim that such traits were in the North blood all along, for the North scientists would never stop experimenting until a satisfactory result was produced.
Ezekiel is generally a mellow and seemingly aloof fellow to be around. Though he never succeeds in assimilating into society (because he was shunned due to his oddities) Ezekiel is neither “kind” or “unkind” to a person, rather, he is “responsive” or “unresponsive”, even those who try to appear imposing upon him. Due to his autism, he does not understand the concepts of rudeness, pain, or dying. Thus, he never seems to be bothered when harassed or bullied by others. The exception to this is when he gets the false implication that somebody is looking to buy a weapon. In this case, Ezekiel will quickly draw whatever firearm he is carrying and attempt to sell it to the victim other party, often starting with pointing the receiving end at their stricken face (as per mentioned in paragraph two). He does not mind being touched by people he is comfortable with; he is not, however, tactile when it comes to strangers. He becomes cross when strangers attempt to pull his arm, hug him, or touch him in any manner.
Ezekiel is very precocious, though he doesn’t seem aware of it. His autism allows him to see patterns within things, from rifle assembly to the way birds fly across the sky. This benefits him in a variety of ways, most importantly, noticing how each misfiring rifle shares a component. Being who he is, any problems in the assembly of a faulty gun would quickly be ironed out, and this is a factor to his policy of perfection in weapons. Because of his innovation feats, he comes off as intimidating to his competitors and misinterpreted as haughty because he does not pursue their conversation and company (unless, of course, for business).
Ezekiel likes to keep a record of his accomplishments. From an early age, his parents ordered him to keep track of his achievements to bolster his confidence. Ezekiel’s first “accomplishment” was his success in drawing a pattern of round circles and lines that symbolized the seasonal flight patterns of birds. This lead to the creation of North’s “three pronged emblem,” which was first emblazoned on Ezekiel’s first customized gun he built up from scratch. The emblem has three circular orbs connected in a triangular fashion. Each of the orbs represents one of the three most important traits of a firearm: range, power, and accuracy. A combination of the three results in the perfect weapon. Ever since then, he made a habit of carving it onto his workshop’s walls for each successful weapon forged.
the pattern appears like this:
and is understood like this:
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT01 >> TABLE OF CONTENTS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT02 >> CONTACT ME
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT03 >> UPDATES
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT04 >> GROWTH
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT05 >> KEEPER
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT06 >> PLAGUE
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT07 >> KEEPER HISTORY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT08 >> POSSESSIONS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT09 >> CONCEPTS & SYMBOLISM
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT10 >> RELATIONSHIPS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT11 >> GALLERY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT12 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT13 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT14 >> CREDITS |
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 12:50 pm
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"It's easy to imagine ways the future can be ugly and depressing. It's harder, but more worthwhile, to imagine plausible ways we can make it better."
- Stanley Schmidt
Item: Arquebus
Name: Vindicator ("Vin")
Text: #5E2612
Personality:
Vindicator is very negative about any topics or situations he find himself or others in. He is extremely pessimistic; this is because he has been exposed to killing, deaths, and firearm related incidents that featured himself in his colorful past. He has a poor perception of people, especially those confined to routinized lives. He is also an advocate of the truth that “weapons do not steal away lives, people do”. He often comments on Ezekiel’s life to the boy himself. Unlike Ezekiel, Vindicator can see that his Grimm’s parents do not hold their own son of high regard. He feels that the giants only chain themselves and their own offspring to a cycle of suffering, a pattern in itself that he tries to make Ezekiel understand. In a sense, he acts as Ezekiel's "conscience", but he's not sure if he has one of his own. He hopes so, and he tries to substitute himself as Ezekiel's so that he may find his own. Vindicator thinks he knows much about everyone else around him but he's not very sure of his own knowledge in himself.
Vindicator is very nosy, wanting to be filled in on the heat of every debate and to know the misfortunes the giants reap. He is very knowledgeable in many aspects because of this characteristic (especially the human psyche). Vindicator is always asking Ezekiel about his personal life and wishing to delve into something embarrassing or hurtful that could explain the boy’s introverted and idiosyncric behavior. Unfortunately, Ezekiel never gives off a satisfactory reaction to this.
Vindicator speaks with a very “sincere” and “persuading”voice that comes off as haunting. This characteristic derives from his form when he was a Putesco, for guns are professionals when it comes to extracting information from others. His demeanor and voice lead other plagues to believe that he is a disturbing character with little room to show affection. However, Ezekiel does not get any of these impressions as a result of his autism and is immune to Vindicator’s information-extracting sessions.
Vindicator shows sympathy towards Ezekiel and genuinely hopes to support him for he does not want his Grimm to become the next casualty in the chain of human strife and struggle. He is well aware that the Norths are sapping their son’s payroll and are showing him very little love to the extent that it is difficult for Vin to believe they had ever shown Ezekiel any. He is completely oblivious to Ezekiel’s autistim, and in fact, believes him to be the “enduring, silent” type that keeps to himself. Ezekiel does not talk to Vindicator about matters not concerning work, though Vindicator makes the attempts to make his Grimm talk. At first, most of the conversation that goes on between the two concerns Ezekiel asking Vindicator to help him hold something, or to retrieve a tool from the workshop, but gradually their communication broadens due to Vindicator's efforts. Vindicator presses on.
PLAGUE HISTORY: THE TALE OF THE HELLION'S BARREL
Mishkan's most prominent folktale is definitely it's most recent regarding the legendary arquebus. Although the weapon has been renamed countless times and can no longer be traced, it is popularly renowned as the "Hellion's Barrel". It is a capricious device; one moment it grants man the greatest boon that brings nothing but happiness, and the next, it relentlessly bestows the greatest calamity and sorrow to disturb him for eternity...
ACT ONE - SWANSON MODEL 1395
“Christopher! Christopher, I’ve got it!”
“What is it, Benjamin?”
Christopher Swanson slammed his notebook shut, and leapt out of his seat. The twenty-four year old inventor scurried into his younger brother’s room, excitedly running through the halls of their house. The brothers had been drafting a revolutionary weapon they predicted would shape the future of battle. The weapon was perfected with Christopher’s recent discovery of using flint as a substitute for matches as the firing propellant. The two Swansons had found matches to be unreliable and too easily put out due to humid weather or unsatisfactory shooting conditions. These shortcomings could be solved with the introduction of flint, which produced sparks.
Benjamin held the finished weapon proudly. The countless hours dedicated towards the martial innovation filled his heart with joy; the new frontier was suddenly closer than he thought. His opal eyes glimmered with the light of a new age, hope inspired a smile upon his lips. “By locking the trigger with the c**k, the flint an strike the pan in a controllable manner. I’ve done it, Ben! We’ve done it!”
Christopher gleefully took the weapon from his brother, sharing his zeal, and loaded Panymium’s first arequebus. Taking a flint from his pocket, he loaded the weapon with a single shot.
He boyishly said, “Let us take this out to test on small game, perhaps a rabbit.”
“Not so fast, Christopher. It was I that assembled the c**k and trigger, you merely discovered the use of flint in weapons!” Benjamin argued, eyes pleading behind a curtain of brown locks. “Without me, we would not have reached be here! Do not be a fool, brother. Hand me the weapon.”
“I should be the one to shoot it first, as that trigger, in addition to the c**k, is entirely mine.” Christopher replied crisply, egotism slipping into his voice. A wave of pride swept over him, and Benjamin disappeared into the background. The latter could not yet sense the wave of playful side of the hostility that came along with the wave of pride that strongly washed over his brother; if he had known so, he would not have reached out with his slender fingers for the barrel of the arquebus.
In his rage, Christopher raised the gun, and shoved it into the chest of his brother. His voice grew louder and he fought the urge to smile: “Now, you listen. You will have your turn, allow your older brother his courtesy, eh, Benny boy? You’ve touched it for quite awhile, you know. I cannot help sell it if I have never shot it, now, can I?”
“But Christopher--I made the difference for this model! Surely I--”
“Surely nothing, brother. I am twenty-four and you are seventeen. I alone raised you after Mother and Father left the world. I granted you a place, Benjamin. I gave you a job, you see? Without myself, you would have no place. No place in Swanson Arms or anyplace that would accept you, an orphan. Now, release the weapon.”
Christopher smiled, amused at his brother. The small tug-of-war battle reminded him of when they were small and fought over more trivial items. He was unaware that Benjamin took his words more seriously than they were intended because it was always difficult for Benjamin to discover if his elder brother was joking him or threatening him. Either way, Christopher’s words had little to no effect on his the younger Swanson. Benjamin tightened his grasp on the barrel and pulled, and his brother shoved in retaliation.
The small tug battle became more feverish when Benjamin forced his brother onto the floor with abrupt force, his foot pressing into the Christopher’s chest. The room seemed to spin when Christopher’s finger tightened on the trigger; his ears filled with the newborn model’s first cry.
It seemed as if time passed all too quickly--a thud--and then,...nothing.
Christopher did not register what had just occurred. Rather, he could not register what just had occurred. When the situation became clear, he dropped the smoking weapon immediately, chuckling at the sight of his brother rolled over on the floor. Benjamin was rather still, playing “dead” perhaps, like he did when the two were young. He was always quite good at it. The elder Swanson squatted beside his brother’s form, prodding his brother with the arquebus’s tip. “Come now, Benjamin. I was only joking, here, take it.”
Benjamin refused to budge. Concerned, Christopher rolled his brother over and instantly stifled a cry of horror, biting down hard on his tongue. The baroque scene mortified the elder Swanson, his eyes reluctantly taking in the grisly details of it. There was no doubt that Benjamin could not see him, let alone hear him. Blood poured from where his right eye had been, trickling down his cheek--his remaining eye was frozen open. Christopher became frantic, supporting his brother’s form , shaking it. The bullet not only penetrated Benjamin’s right eye but made an exit through the young Swanson’s brain. Christopher was no medical practitioner, but he dreaded the obvious truth: Benjamin Swanson was no more.
The truth was no simple one to accept. It was one that Christopher was not prepared for.
“Benjamin...Benjamin...damn it...!” he pleaded, but Benjamin would not return. A single opal eye gazed back at the glazed eyes of another, and haunted.
The thought of the shot being heard did not occur to the elder Swanson. The arquebus dropped soundlessly to the floor, its maker no longer cared for it. Christopher’s lips trembled and tears dropped from his eyes, dissolving upon the wood of the arquebus with each fall. What disturbed the elder Swanson was that it was not Benjamin’s unexpected fate nor Christopher’s own part in it, but that he did not know why he was crying. He did not cry for Benjamin. At least, not yet.
At the moment, Christopher had little idea of what to say of his brother’s death--what it meant to him--his business--his reputation. It was an accident, and so it was. And so it was accepted.
Years passed and Swanson’s Arms was nonetheless a success with only one Swanson brother running its business. However, its competitors were aware that without the precocious Benjamin Swanson, the arquebus was frozen in its form; no adjustments nor advancements could be made. Christopher Swanson was aware that it would not be long before Swanson's Arms would be unable to compete with rival competition. The Swanson Model 1395 would be frozen in time--like the memory of its innovator’s single, opal eye.
ACT TWO - LUCKY LUCY
Years had passed; Christopher trudged through Auvinus, ignoring all around him. He contemplated the reason of his weeping all those years ago, for he knew it was not entirely of remorse, but perhaps due to the reality of solitude. As he turned a corner and proceeded down a dark alleyway, Christopher felt something pulling his leg- quite literally. Startled, and regaining his composure after almost tripping over the force, he abruptly looked down to see a frail young peasant, starving and weak. The boy was no older than Benjamin when the younger Swanson met his fate.
“Oh my. Lad, are you alright?” Christopher asked, shoving his hands into his pockets, probing for shillings to spare. He was no charitable man, but for the moment, it seemed like it was the right thing to do.
“Please, sir....,” the peasant managed, “have you got any food or shillings?”
Christopher found none. But in a holster around his waist was his first arquebus- the weapon that killed his brother. Not wanting to get rid of it, but having nothing else for the poor peasant, he finally decided that it was time.
“Take this,” he said, removing the holster and a box of gunpowder from his belt, “it is not much, but it should well be able to stop a boar dead in its tracks. Go hunt yourself some supper, not only for today, but for years to come.” It felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his chest. Christopher convinced himself that he was not trying to get rid of the arquebus, but rather, trying to help a man in need. Yes, Benjamin would have liked that. His brother was the more charitable of the two, anyhow.
The peasant’s eyes seemed to shine, as he accepted the weapon with two hands. His dirty fingers brushed over the fine details that Christopher embellished the weapon with, though Christopher doubted that the boy knew of the donation's significance. It was better that the peasant did not know.
“Thank you, kind sir. I will never forget your generosity.”
“Make no deal of it. I am merely helping a fellow man.” He tipped his hat towards the peasant, and left the alleyway. He journeyed towards his favorite hill, and when he finally reached its zenith, tears rolled down his cheeks as he imagined the peasant trudging off. After so many years, the tears for Benjamin, sincerely dropped, coursing down the wrinkled cheeks of Christopher Swanson. The opal eye no longer haunted him, and for a moment, he thought he heard Benjamin's voice whisper "Thank you, Christopher", in the melody of the wind, but he could not be sure.
The peasant's life with the Swanson 1395 began jovially. The peasant proceeded to begin hunting with his newly acquired arquebus, starting a long streak of successful hunts followed by great feasts from then on. The peasant’s auspicious beginnings reaped further fortune as his business in trade swelled. One fortunate spring, he was acquainted with a beautiful woman who returned his love. He soon became well enough to support a family, and had three triplet daughters: Royce, Allison, and Margaret. Because it was the harbringer of his happiness, the peasant named the Swanson 1395 “Lucky Lucy” after his lovely wife.
Lucky Lucy sat loaded atop a drawer in the peasant’s parlor for the most part. It continued to bring great fortune to the family, until one winter: the winter the Plague afflicted Mishkan the most. Plagued animals died out in large numbers; game became scarce, and once again, the peasant found himself struggling to support his family. Lucky Lucy could provide little for him, and he found himself back where he started.
Lucy especially fell into the doldrums, for there was little she could do to support her family in return. She had grown weak and could not work; instead, she was forced to face the winter of reality: the malnutrition of her three daughters. Although Lucy could see only ominous clouds, her husband nonetheless persisted on; heading out on hunts despite knowing that he might not return with any results. Meals were rare, and often if he managed to bring any animal home, it was expected to last the family days.
One morning when the peasant prepared himself to hunt, he noticed that Lucky Lucy was empty.
”How curious,” he thought. Surely, he always made it a habit to keep her bloated. He returned to his chambers to fetch his gunpowder when a certain heap of something drew his attention. The teal, morning light revealed a horrific sight: Lucy with blood pouring from her head, her eyes wet and open, visible streaks of tears that were fresh upon her cheeks. The blood stained her blonde hair in places, his floor in others. He could not look for long.
The peasant flung open a dusty window to vomit and weep. He did so quietly, for his daughters were asleep and unaware.
He should have known. Her talks of suicide (“one less mouth to feed”, she’d said) were taken by him as small talk and nothing more. He should have known.
When he could think properly again, he set out to the forest, slinging her corpse over his shoulder in a grey sack. She would be buried properly. Lucky Lucy, loaded, swung from his belt along with a pocketwatch and a small box of gunpowder.
The burial was a quick one, his return was much slower. He buried his wife at the tree where the two were first acquainted; he'd shot a stag she was sketching, and the incident made her cross with him. He smiled softly at the memory of Lucy stomping hard on his foot, her tranquil eyes filled with a frustration that did not suit her.
His slow return was greeted by his daughters, standing outside of the home. He brought himself to smile, and he was relieved they smiled back. They did not seem to suspect that their mother was dead, nor that their father left for her burial. The peasant had made the precaution before he left to move his bed over the bloodstains on the floor.
The triplets, naive in their glee, ran to their father upon his return, their hands extended. They only laughed.
He blinked.
It was then that it struck him.
Their birthday. The girls must have figured he and his wife set out early to return with gifts for them.
He had nothing to give, but he did not want to disappoint. He distributed what he had remaining of value: the pocketwatch was given to the oldest, Royce, the most responsible. The small wooden box of gunpowder was granted to Allison, the most fragile. Finally, Lucky Lucy herself was given to the youngest, Margaret, the pure. Although the items could not be of much use to the trio, they were gifts from himself nonetheless. He was thankful that they seemed content.
At the moment, the girls did not understand why their father looked away from them, eyes steady elsewhere. Soon, they became too absorbed in their gifts to take notice of him wiping away tears.
Royce held the pocketwatch to her ear, smiling at the sound of tick tick tock that reminded her the winter would soon be over. Allison quietly slipped the gunpowder box into a pocket in her dress, she had no use for it at her age. Margaret excitedly spun in a circle, almost as if she were dancing. She closed her eyes and imagined rabbits running around her, deer, birds---food. She could almost smell the meal that mother would prepare! Rabbits! She loved rabbits the most!
She was so hungry. The youngest triplet pulled the trigger, and Lucky Lucy laughed wickedly for the first time in three years.
BANG!
And then...thud. That was all it took.
Royce screamed at the sight of blood pouring from her father’s forehead while Allison began to weep. Margaret could only stare through numb eyes. The rabbits, deer, and birds vanished. instantly Lucky Lucy dropped from her hand. Her sisters dropped their gifts also, rushing to their father's side. Royce and Allison were by the peasant's fallen body in an instant, but Margaret, in fear, remained behind. She did not understand. Was she the one that made her father disappear?
No! she wanted to tell herself, Lucky Lucy did it!
Gradually, she began to cry too, her tears spotting the arquebus with melancholy.
The weapon that had bought nothing but happiness and fortune collected its payment at last.
ACT THREE - REBBECCA, ALSO KNOWN AS "THE DARK WIFE"
Shocked by how quickly it all happened, the three triplets hurriedly ran from their home and began wandering the streets and pathways of Mishkan, clinging to their hope to start a new life. With them, they carried the pocketwatch, gunpowder box, and Lucky Lucy. Clutching the hands of her younger sisters, Royce waited for the carriage traffic to stop, then crossed the street.
She heard a voice. A voice of a man she did not know.
“Unwanted weapons? Swords, axes, and daggers are needed!”
Wonderful, she thought. A way to get rid of that horrid rubbish.
“Excuse me, sir. How much would you be willing to pay for this?” Royce pointed to the arquebus that her youngest sister was holding.
The man blinked, then smiled. Royce wanted to smile back, for he was quite handsome, but the death of her parents prevented her from appearing jolly before public nor private company. She noted that he was dressed neatly; he wore suspenders that were latched onto clean, black pants. A snow-colored pinstripe shirt was punctuated with an ebony ribbon that wrapped around his throat. He looked trustworthy enough, but Royce was old enough to know that deception came easiest if one judged merely upon appearances.
“Why, that’s worth plenty! How about sixty shillings?” the man inquired, fumbling with the end of his ribbon. An arquebus...a Swanson, nonetheless, judging by the craftsmanship...
“I-I am not so sure if that is an honest price. This thing as dreadful as it is...it is valuable to us.” Royce said, nodding at Lucky Lucy who was hugged against Margaret’s shaking hands. The youngest sister knew that it was not the price that Royce was worried about, Royce was curious if she could trust the stranger with such a valuable item that had both been their benefactress and malefactress. Allison was as still as a statue, eyeing the man warily.
“Tell me, little girl. What’s your name?” Asked the man, quite inquisitively. The trust game was something he was quite adept at; he had no motive to steal from the young girl, but he did enjoy bargains. He slicked his golden locks back, aqua eyes gazing down at the trio that guarded the tantalizing weapon.
Royce knew better than to give her real name to a stranger, especially one that wandered the streets of a city asking to buy weapons. “Rebbecca,” she answered abruptly, cold eyes meeting aquas.
“Very well. I shall name this beautifully crafted weapon after you, Rebbecca. If it is of value to you, then I must remember you. Sixty shillings its craft deserves, wouldn’t you say so?”
The deal was made; Lucky Lucy died with the transaction, and Rebbecca was born.
Royce nodded, and turning her sisters around, left the man. The triplets ere absorbed into the shopping crowd, and neither party saw each other again.
The man was a thief. A murderer. Part of a crime syndicate named “Chandelier,” his job in the troupe was to rob and kill (in the process) women and children. He took on the most brutal of the jobs that others could not tolerate; he was “the man of all seasons”. His targets were always orphans with inheritance and women living alone, jobs that others morally declined that he never failed to accept. The man would routinely begin his operations by slitting their throats, he was not at all a good man. Little was known of him, sans his surname: Harvey.
They called him “Humble”. Humble Harvey. Humble because he spoke little of his feats; he wore not a jewel that he stole. He was rather an odd fellow that seldom spoke, though his songs were favorites during Chandelier’s annual social gatherings. However, all the members were well aware of the sinister soul of the seemingly-charming man. The appearance was nothing but a persona. Humble Harvey was perhaps a hellion himself, as legend goes. One of his nasty idiosyncrasies was that he would lather his hands in the fresh blood of his victims after a kill; after his black accomplishment, he would cleanse the scene of all redness that remained. His hands, forever, were always still drenched with crimson blood. It astounded his fellow thieves, how a fellow could clean a crime scene whilst leaving his own hands as red as the fires of hell.
He never told anyone how.
Humble Harvey was awfully humble. Rebbecca, on the contrary, was anything but.
With the acquisition of the arquebus, his killing became more efficient, and the murder rates of Mishkan skyrocketed. Nobody knew who the killer was, and nobody knew how the killings took place. There was no sound, yet there were bullet holes, sometimes more in one corpse than the other.
The thief was a professional. To follow up every kill, he would axe the body into bits and pieces as precaution. The only witness was Rebbecca herself, though she always accompanied him and never left his side. Humble regarded her as his “Dark Wife”, a faithful companion that was always a beautiful opening to his baroque services. Humble assured the weapon that she, like him, would come in contact with the blood of their victims, for he lathered her as well, but just enough so that he would be able to cleanse her.
Soon, the syndicate came to simply greet the murderer as if he was two people. “Humble and The Wife”.
Humble and The Wife were happy together, but their luck trickled to a stop. Little did Humble know that the woman he was robbing, Lady Sparrow, was a victim of the black plague. Humble’s fortune would wane that very midnight the heist took place.
He began his operation as he normally would: the Wife left a hole in Lady Sparrow’s head at midnight while the girl was sleeping. Humble was careful to bring his own share of cloth to smother the gunshot, like usual, and with his emaciated axe, reduced the good Lady to what was suitable to bring along. The darkness of the night had masked her ill looks, and during the chopping, Humble was still unaware of the exposure he was receiving to death.
He was no fool. Death soon hinted at him, through her smell.
Humble Harvey knew that corpses reeked, but Sparrow’s was a stranger smell, the smell of absolute death and the end soon to come. The Wife had her share too, and Humble quickly wiped the red stains off her handle.
With a smother-cloth full of jewelry and a quickening pace as he left the Sparrow Manor, Humble Harvey knew that something was horribly wrong.
Unfortunately for him, Chandelier was well aware of this too. Weeks after Humble’s heist; his body became the living evidence of the black plague at work. He was expelled from the syndicate, and Rebbecca, The Wife, left Chandelier with him.
What became of them was unknown, the youth and charm his face once wore were wasted away from the victories of the plague. He became unrecognizable, and for all Chandelier could testify: Humble Harvey disappeared.
ACT FOUR - VINDICATOR
Alas, Humble Harvey most certainly did not disappear.
He became the same man as every man waiting for death to claim him. His body was colored with reds and greens, his breath smelled of decay, dust rested in the crevices of his nails, and dirt stained his fine-tailored clothes. His reflection told him nothing; he did not know the man that looked back into his aqua eyes. Though his appearance may have dramatically changed, his personality did not. Even towards the end of his life, the man was highly avaricious, perhaps more so than when he was perfectly healthy. He gathered his jewelry and belongings into the middle of the Mishkan market, hollering bargains and offers through yellowed teeth at all that passed him.
He received no answer, people dispersed left and right from him, making note to avoid looking at him. He withstood the urge to sob at his pitiful self, he dared not to question why it was he deserved such a fate. He himself had reaped it through his spree of crime and villainy, even towards his death, he made no effort to seek atonement.
”How revolting! Dying and still desperate for a fortune? Why, I never!”
”Another blackened one, I see? All the same. ”
”No, you see, this one must have been a thief. Those jewels he has! Oh, but they are so dirty, the dirt ruins it, don’t you agree?”
The man slumped in disdain. He would die with empty pockets, and like the woman commented, with soiled riches.
Not too far away from the man, stood a single boy. He was leaning against the brick wall of a church, his eye in sharp focus.
A boy watched the man carefully through his only operative eye. It gazed at the shriveled man, interested. Adjusting the eyepatch over his right eye, he neared the man, earning gasps from the public with each closer step he took. The man was in absolute euphoria at the sight of someone showing signs of interest in what he had to offer. In a frenzy, he showed the boy his jewels and golden chains, dirty as they were. He was surprised when the boy shook his head, and pointed to the arquebus that rested beside the desperate man instead. Why? was all the man could think before he spoke.
”Th-The Wife? You want The Wife?” the man was in disbelief. He was unsure of how to respond, Rebbecca had been his fondest companion. She rested upon the cloth he used to smother his victims with.
”Vindicator. His name is Vindicator,” the boy replied tonelessly. His grey eye was rather bored looking, and his voice was altogether lax in its delivery. An odd symbol that was engraved onto the boy's eyepatch and sewn onto his vest intrigued the man. The boy was strange.
”How much are you selling?” the boy questioned.
”She’s not for sale!”
”He.”
”P-Pardon?”
”He. The arquebus is a ‘he’. A Swanson Model 1395, to be precise. I have always needed a model like such, I lack it in my storage. This must be the prototype, as the pattern is rather plain in comparison to the standard Model 1395’s, though it must be the same type because the handle is of the same length, and the barrel shows no other signs of change. His name is Vindicator, and I will have him.” the boy's voice that was once a dull tone quickly became sharp and snazzy at the description of the gun. The man found it hard to believe that the boy himself was able to speak in both tones, for he looked so impassive and altogether bored. But that was just it. The boy's appearance. It struck the man as something he'd seen before.
It was then that everything clicked in the man’s head. The boy resembled a figure of his memory strongly; he’d seen the face before in his childhood, in paintings only. Squeezing his eyes tight, the dying man tried to recall any memory that shared the face of the demanding boy. Who could it be? I know this boy...
It struck him.
There could be no other lad that died in legend that knew the Swanson so well, none other than its maker. Benjamin Swanson. The eye was missing in the right place, the voice was a ghostly tune, the hair was tied in the same fashion as the painting Humble Harvey once saw in a heist of the last Lady Swanson’s home. The ghost of Benjamin Swanson was here to punish the man, to perhaps take the weapon and kill him with it for his crimes! Yes, that must be it!
Shrieking, the man flung the weapon at the boy, afraid for his life. The spectre seemed quite real, but the man figured it was the effect of the Plague. The boy caught Vindicator with a swift motion, and repeated his question. ”How much are you selling?”
He said it slower this time.
The man spouted the lowest price possible, fear defeated his greed. ”O-One shilling!”
Emotionless as he came, the boy tossed the man a single coin. He then lowered the muzzle of the gun so that it was directed at the man’s face. The latter paled, and covered his disgusting face with his hands, whimpering. Blood poured from him quicker than before despite that the gun did not hurt him at all. He anticipated it--
”I’m not shooting you. Watch.”
The man opened his eyes slowly, staring as the boy pointed his new arquebus at a small stone crow perched upon the tower of the church beside the market. The boy paused before shooting, his single eye staring dully past the gargoyles and focusing specifically on the crow.
Vindicator shouted triumphantly, and the crow dropped from its marble perch, into the trembling hands of the dying man. He winced when it struck his skin, and he felt a bruise forming.
”A totem from death.” the eyepatched boy said in the same slow voice. He lowered Vindicator before he continued. ”Father says Death sends crows to make the dying feel better. He says that Arthur’s wife got a crow and it made Arthur feel better about her too. This one is for you.”
He left with little to say, though he began to mimic the crow’s cry: ”Caw, caw, caw...”
He turned his heel, disappearing, and was gone.
Murmurs ran through the market, free.
”Who was that boy? He was so eerie...” a shawled woman inquired, her eyes shaken from the event that had just taken place. ”He was so beautiful though, like...an Angel of Death!”
”Oh please, that is absurd. You and your fanatical tales, Marissa, you never stop with them, do you?” another woman scoffed, earning a slap from Marissa.
The third and final woman in the party was solemn in her response.
”The boy is Ezekiel North. If that weapon is truly the first Swanson like he proclaims, then he has indeed inherited the Hellion’s Barrel, and its strife with it.”
The tale continues.
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT01 >> TABLE OF CONTENTS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT02 >> CONTACT ME
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT03 >> UPDATES
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT04 >> GROWTH
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT05 >> KEEPER
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT06 >> PLAGUE
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT07 >> KEEPER HISTORY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT08 >> POSSESSIONS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT09 >> CONCEPTS & SYMBOLISM
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT10 >> RELATIONSHIPS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT11 >> GALLERY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT12 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT13 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT14 >> CREDITS |
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 12:54 pm
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Oliver North ; Ezekiel's father, scientist (living)
Eleanor "Lenora" North ; Ezekiel's mother, scientist (living)
Arthur North ; Ezekiel's Uncle/Tutor & Oliver's brother, imperial guard (living)
Mikhail Enfield ; Mishkanian blacksmith/weaponsmith, Ezekiel's employer (living)
historical accounts regarding Ezekiel North
Oliver North, April 19, 1397; Ezekiel is five Our boy Ezekiel is a bit of an...oddity. His idiosyncrasies are rather frustrating to Lenora and myself. He never seems to have a conscience but he is not cruel. No, he is not cruel. He is a helpful creature, an unrivaled aid to Lenora and myself-- quite clever, actually. Often he revises our formulas and introduces better ones. Though the council would be excited for the North family due to our gem of genius, I am afraid for us, afraid for Ezekiel. Ezekiel seems to be more interested in the sciences than with socializing with his family and our friends. I wonder if he does not have the confidence to enter society. The boy rarely piques up conversations towards Lenora and myself. He does, however, respond to our inquiries.
To combat this, Lenora and I have begun to give him the habit of keeping track of his accomplishments by keeping records. He also keeps a journal, Arthur is successfully educating the boy on reading and writing.
I did hear stories from Arthur, who seemed worried about Ezekiel and that other children were bullying him for his tendency to be "quiet” and “spooky".
"The assimilation of Ezekiel into the company of others his age will be an ordeal that may be near impossible", Arthur argued to me during tea-time "I will attempt what is capable". I refuse to believe so. He is capable of befriending work, therefore the same could be applied to people, theoretically. For example, I do note that Ezekiel has found a new hobby in inventing small contraptions; things like wind-up teacups and auto-tipping kettles. Another new hobby he has is that he spends hours at a time outside watching bird’s flight patterns, then drawing out these patterns on his papers.
I do not understand why he does these things, but Lenora claims they make him happy. They may make him happy, but his interests do not satisfy the needs for the Council. The boy has no aspiration to take part in what his family has aligned with, and shows no further curiosity in sciences than he asks. Arthur is far from zealous in his offer, that I am aware. I am grateful, for the options at hand are few.
Ezekiel North, August 11, 1400; age eight My mother and father are always talking loudly. I do not know why. But it is always about the same thing. They are always talking about how the military is getting more dough than the science council in Mishkan. I do not think they like the military. I like the military. On monday Monday, when mother took me to the market to buy a fish, I saw a man with a white-looking uniform. There was some blue, though. Mother told me not to wave to him because he was a part of the Imperial Guard. I think she didn’t like him because he did not wave to her first. But when she wasn’t looking, I waved anyway. He waved back. The Imperial Guard is nice. They have guns. When I went home, I asked my father if we had a gun. He said we did. He brought it out and showed it to me. Then somebody knocked on the door, and father went to open it. I touched the gun. I clicked something though, and sparks flew out. It was really bright, and before I knew it, I could not see when I covered my left eye.
Mother rushed into the room and was loud. She told me to open my eyes. I opened them, and she got louder. I laughed. I thought it was silly that she was loud when I followed her directions. Father says loud people are silly and silly things make people laugh. I want to know more about guns. I told father that I liked guns. He took me to shoot a long time ago. I hit every rat I aimed at. Father said that I was good at shooting because I did not have to close an eye to use the sights. People were loud like mother when I showed them my right eye. Father gave me an eye patch to cover it up. But I liked flipping up the eye patch to show people my hole.
Father was not happy when I told him I liked guns. I think he was not happy because mother was loud. He is like that a lot. He does not like mother when she is loud. It makes him loud too. I laughed because they were both loud.
Ezekiel North, March 4, 1406; age fourteen This morning, I touched toyed around with father’s rifle some more. It turns out that it is a Charlemagne Model 1412 wheel-lock carbine. A carbine is a shorter version of a rifle. I know this because I looked up guns at the archives. I did not like how the trigger’s action was completely unprotected from accidents. If for some reason, a match was lit, triking steel was ready, but the shooter was not yet ready to fire, an accident could happen. So I set out to find a way to make guns safe so that it would not make holes in people. I do not mind my hole but father said other people do not like the holes. I believe father because other people do not like my hole.
I experimented all day, and around suppertime, finally settled with a hinge attached to the front of the trigger that had to be unlocked to shoot. If the hinge was locked, the trigger would not budge, no matter how hard you pushed it back. I was happy with my invention. I was so happy that I wanted to show it to the Imperial Guard. I took the gun outside, and asked the first Imperial Guardsman to shoot a wild duck that was flying overhead using my rifle. At first he laughed at me and called me “Lad go home” but I told him that was not my name and that I was confused because he was laughing but I was not being loud or silly. He took up the gun, and tried to shoot. But the trigger would not move. It was funny seeing a soldier not know how to work the gun. I showed him my safety contraption. Suddenly, a man that looked like father’s age tapped me on the shoulder and asked to see my gun. He told me his name, Mikhail Enfield. He smelled nice. He smelled burnt. He said he was a gun maker. Enfield said he wanted to hire me to work for him. I told him I would ask father. I was afraid that father would not let me work for a gun maker because of my hole. When I asked Father if he would allow me to work with guns, he got loud. Father said he would not allow me to work under any gunsmith.
So I asked father if I could work for a grocer named Mikhail Enfield. Father said yes.
Enfield right now has me making pointy things like big letter openers that hang off of the belts of rich people. It is not fun. But he says I will be able to make guns soon.
Ezekiel North, November 9, 1407; Ezekiel is fifteen I am writing because Enfield was enraged and told me “North, cease that groaning immediately and for Rhine III’s sake, the shop’s walls are not suitable for your head banging! Go write in that journal of yours to calm yourself.” So I did. I was loud upset because of something that happened recently. I could not find a way to make my newest rifle fire at a desirable rate. I heard from a woman in the townfolk that a mage by the square helped her to allow her crops to grow faster. I do not like magic. But I decided it was worth trying. So I took the rifle to the mage, and he asked for four hundred shillings. Four hundred is a lot. But I had no other choice. So I gave him the shillings.
When I got the rifle back the next day, I realized that nothing had changed. I just lost four hundred shillings. I began to be loud myself and hit my head against the door until Enfield stopped me. He asked me what happened. I told him the mage stole my money. Enfield laughed at me and told me that magic was only good for fun and games and nothing else. When I continued on Enfield got enraged and told me to write in my journal.
So I decided not to trust any kind of magic ever.
Mikhail Enfield, June 6, 1408; Ezekiel is sixteen When I returned to the shop a little after noon today, I could not find the North boy anywhere! It so happens that he had been poking around my warehouse, full of firearms of all different shapes and sizes. North said that he wanted to make guns. I was infuriated that he had the nerve to touch my precious collection without my consent! But the lad was damn passionate about these new weapons, and was hell-bent on making them. I told him to “never, ever, touch my guns again”. When he started sulking, my chest felt heavy and I did not know how to explain this to his Mother and Father. So reluctantly, I succumbed, allowing him to forge his beloved firearms, though, starting out small. Nothing too radical at this stage. His father would not appreciate too many holes in him. The lad wolfs down sausages and eggs fast. His father tells me he becomes cross if his menu is altered.
Ezekiel has not spoken much to me ever since the day he arrived, uncertain skies in those opal eyes of his. He does what is asked of him, though he often meanders towards his own personal projects. He does not share his projects with me.
Ezekiel North, November 1, 1409; Ezekiel is seventeen Today when he was out making a sale, I went back into Enfield’s warehouse and found his most prized hunting rifle. I touched examined it, and found out that it was quite the piece of garbage. So I took it to the workshop. The entire inner barrel was very smooth and such. But something was not right. The ball the rifle fired was a tad smaller than the diameter of the barrel. The rifle lacked accuracy. So I got to work forging a new barrel, this one hexagonal shaped, that would match the ball precisely in size. It only took an afternoon to finish. I also added the safety switch I pioneered. I put that switch on every rifle I create. Anyhow, when Enfield got back, he was really loud angry with me, confining me to the back room.
After a while, I could hear him examining the rifle, and taking it to the hallway to shoot. I pressed my ear against the door to hear. He liked it. Enfield came in and forgave me, and worked out a plan with father for me to live at the shop from now on. When Father decides to keep things he says “this one’s a keeper.”
Enfield did not say it but I think he was thinking “this one’s a keeper.”
I asked Enfield if I could see Father, Uncle Arthur, and Mother anymore if I lived with him. Enfield said he’d teach me liracy literacy because “Arthur is going away soon son”. I do not know where Arthur is going. I asked Father where Arthur was going. Father was loud angry when I asked. He said “never to speak of that damned fool again”. Mother said quietly “Oliver, don’t raise your voice at him. It isn’t his fault”. Mother and Father both did not tell me. I asked Enfield. Enfield said Arthur joined the Imperial Guard and that is why Father does not want to talk about him anymore.
Talking about the Imperial Guard makes Mother and Father quiet around the house.
Mikhail Enfield, March 17, 1410; Ezekiel is seventeen Now here’s a funny story to tell, seeing how today is his birthday. The North boy does talk to people a lot more than he used to. I’m starting to think that my teaching him of grammar and etiquette is beginning to pay off. I hear from the townspeople he converses with that he asks the most out-of-place questions. From Ms. Twining, the wife of the butcher, I heard that he wandered into their shop one day asking “Why do bugs come in the summer? I do not like the bugs.” And that he asks crippled folk “Why do you not choose to walk?”
It is all comical, yes, but I am heartened he’s opening up to the world, and not just to myself or his family. Perhaps he’ll even make some friends now. Who knows? His folks say that is not likely but what do his folks know? Oliver and Eleanor North, with their false smiles and haughty talk. For Rine III’s sake! Their own son is more competent than they themselves are. I cannot understand how minds of brilliant science compose only poor opinions towards a genius. It is folk like these that hinder the process of finding a cure for the plague.
Ezekiel seems not at all bothered by talk of the plague. He shows no interest in it, or anything else for the matter. When I spoke to him of his future careers, his face grew as dark as the Panymium sky at night at the mention of perhaps becoming a Mage. He claims they are nothing but "thieves and liars". He would not allow me to question the topic.
Ezekiel North, October 22, 1411; Ezekiel is nineteen I found an interesting man in the middle of the street today. He was very green and he did not look good. He had red coming out of him. I think red and green look nice together because Mother said they did, but the other people did not seem to think they did; it was all very curious to me. He was just sitting in the middle of the marketplace trying to sell off some of his old items. Nobody was buying from him. They were saying thing’s such as “Good as dead” and “Don’t touch his belongings! Don’t buy anything!” and they were very loud angry enraged. Things of that sort. The jewels he had were of no interest to me. I saw a small gun in the corner of his mat. I recognized the design. It was a simple single-handed arquebus pistol. No stock, thus my first impression was that it was probably inaccurate. Upon further inspection, I noticed that it was an original Swanson. Eventually, I was able to coerce him to part with it for one shilling. It almost seemed as if he wanted to give it to me, which Enfield said was funny. It was a good buy. I could never buy anything, not even a dozen eggs, for only one shilling. Mother and Father do not give me shillings much. They take my “pay” from Enfield. Enfield is irked by that.
I went back to the shop and put my new arquebus in the warehouse. I planned to use it as a comparison weapon to our Enfield-North counterparts, just to show how much more improved ours were. Enfield went into the room to fetch a flintlock carbine, and when he came back, he said it smelled fishy weird revolting. He was very enraged at me, but I did not know what I did wrong. Enfieled told me that he would never be angry at me unless I did something wrong.
The smell was awful. I discovered that it came from the arequebus so I took it out.
- - - - - -
ENFIELD-NORTH ARMSthis section is the world building section that is part of Ezekiel's history Mikhail Enfield ( currently 44 ) Enfield-North Arms Logo Shop Layout
Enfield Arms has been in business since 1404, making it relatively recent to Mishkan. However, its owner, Mikhail Enfield, is very competent in crafting state-of-the-art firearms and precision blades. The shop has become more renowned for its rifles and carbines with the addition of Ezekiel North, rather than its swords and daggers.
In 1406, when Enfield hired Ezekiel off the streets of Mishkan, the shop began to expand its horizons to all sorts of guns, whilst continuing to support the production of bladed weapons. However, its guns were the gem of its catalog. By early 1407, it had been renamed to Enfield-North Arms.
Enfield has Ezekiel work the showroom, introducing customers to their collection and products, in hopes that his social skills would flourish. To compare his own creations to those of other weaponsmiths, Ezekiel purchases weapons (chiefly firearms) from different shops to show customers, letting them compare these weapons to his superior ones. These “comparison weapons” are stored in the warehouse along with the Enfield-North examples.
This marketing ploy in product comparison is one of the major factors in Enfield-North’s success in the field, thus allowing buyers to ensure that they wield the finest firearms in the world.
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT01 >> TABLE OF CONTENTS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT02 >> CONTACT ME
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT03 >> UPDATES
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT04 >> GROWTH
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT05 >> KEEPER
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT06 >> PLAGUE
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT07 >> KEEPER HISTORY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT08 >> POSSESSIONS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT09 >> CONCEPTS & SYMBOLISM
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT10 >> RELATIONSHIPS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT11 >> GALLERY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT12 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT13 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT14 >> CREDITS |
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 1:06 pm
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REGARDING THE FOURTH ACT: Ezekiel in fact, never shot the arquebus, as it was already a plagued item. The reader must keep in mind that the legend exaggerates facts; the "true story" was that he simply purchased the item without having shot it (Humble Harvey still did believe that Ezekiel was the spitting image of Benjamin Swanson, however). The true story is recorded AS IS in Ezekiel's journal.
- Ezekiel is a high-functioning autism patient; his focus is not as limited (rather, self-enhanced)
- Arthur tutors Ezekiel out of pity for his own brother, which disgusts Enfield
-Mikhail Enfield's name is a combination of that of Mikhail Kalashnikov, the designer of the legendary AK-47 assault rifle, and the Enfield Royal Armament Factory, which produced every weapon in the British arsenal from the Enfield musket to the SA80 Individual Weapon.
- Enfield is fond of the boy and puts in more effort in tutoring and giving therapy towards Ezekiel
- Benjamin Swanson (the brother that died in Act One), is the spitting image of Ezekiel North and lost the same eye. This suggests the Hellion's Barrel reaching a full circle.
- I work with autistic kids & children with special needs every other Saturday, Ezekiel's journal is adapted after their written prose
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT01 >> TABLE OF CONTENTS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT02 >> CONTACT ME
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT03 >> UPDATES
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT04 >> GROWTH
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT05 >> KEEPER
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT06 >> PLAGUE
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT07 >> KEEPER HISTORY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT08 >> POSSESSIONS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT09 >> CONCEPTS & SYMBOLISM
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT10 >> RELATIONSHIPS
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT11 >> GALLERY
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT12 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT13 >> RESERVED
BANGBANGSHOOTSHOOT14 >> CREDITS |
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 1:25 pm
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 1:29 pm
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 1:30 pm
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