There was a purpose to ritual. It was the practice that created a behavior into muscle memory so precise that it mimicked instinct. It reinforced conviction under inhuman strain. What became ritual became hallowed beyond the confines of personal failing or weakness and became ideal attainable. Thraen had started what felt like long ago, going out as often, even nightly, and as habits formed in around ninety days, he believed he could at least call his vigil habit, if not yet ritual. He had not yet transcended the debilitation of wounds to force his body out to obey will and thought alone. But it was a start, and one minted into coinage with the resolve of his feelings and stance in decisions laid at his feet by his enemies.
He could pay them the answers now. In a way, it was liberating. As the dark of mid-of-night gave way to the coldest hours of black morning under raven night, Thraen leapt from part of an overpass to the building tops of one of the small bohemian, arts districts of the city that cut along a riverwalk. There was an aura, a minor one charged with Chaos. He resumed his running along the bricked ledges near the awnings and painted signs, closing distance.
"Si tu non veneris ad me, ego veniam ad te*"
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*If you don't come to me, I'll come to you.
Posted: Tue Nov 26, 2013 10:48 pm
Bischofite cared little for paintings, poets, and pompous patrons. He held distaste for subjects considered inspiring, if not revolutionary, in their rendering. Medium meant little to him, and artistic intent rendered itself nigh incomprehensible in his eyes. Art was a venue that the youma never had, and never found use for. A pointless endeavor of expression, individuals of varying backgrounds toiled away ceaselessly toward creating some universal portrayal of the thoughts and feelings that pervaded them. And despite Serpentine's express ruling toward harming civilians, he sought to antagonize those wandering souls in a more abstract way.
Perhaps it took hours to render a painting, if not days. Perhaps it took weeks to finalize a sculpture, if not months. And the longer the timespan he anticipated for the art, the more cathartic release he found in destroying it beyond repair. Art formed one of the fallacies of mankind in his eyes - the belief that their ideals held such weight and merit that they must be expressed in pseudo-pioneering ways for the entirety of the world to witness and worship. He hated it, despised it, and clarified his own small opinion through gasoline and a single matchstick.
Bischofite figured the entire gallery wouldn't burn down - he'd only soaked one painting, as a means to create unease and preserve other potential therapeutic ventures. And he realized from this small endeavor that sabotaging art for Bischofite was not entirely different from stuffing the dead as Alois.
But despite having the potential for an art form, Alois regarded taxidermy as a means to soothe his overly sharp mind.
And as he exited the building, still absentmindedly massaging his sore forearm, the general-turned-lieutenant felt the presence of one stronger than him. Given his mischievous acts, he would most certainly come under scrutiny for it, but perhaps he could worm his way out of a potentially sour situation by clarifying that no one got hurt. Perhaps someone's livelihood was ruined, but they might also garner fame due to this incident. A number of lies sprung to the forefront of his mind, cobbling themselves together almost instantaneously while he anticipated the super senshi's approach.
But the patchwork tale fell apart when he found that he hadn't the confidence to deliver such easy falsehoods these days. He lacked all strength to defend himself against the approaching confrontation, and he was stripped of the means to avoid it altogether. In essence, he was helpless now.
Well. Maybe that wasn't so bad.
After lighting a cigarette with the dwindling flame, he walked toward the alleys where he might seek safety in the form of Alois Scholz.
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Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2013 7:58 pm
As he closed on the signature, there was the startling sound of a fire alarm whining out into the dark and the faintest drafts of a cigarette. The firemen can handle the damage to the buildings, if it comes from the likes of such a one. Which is not inconceivable.
By the time alarms were tripped, it was increasingly likely that the offender was already leaving the scene, so tracing out from the center of noise and then towards the general feel of the aura and -
There. A figure, movement of an amble in the dark and the cherry of a cigarette. Thraen pushed off and landed, placing himself between the alleys, the easy escape, and the lieutenant. As he straightened from landing he took the other in. It paused immediate comment. The senshi of gardens knew this one, but not as he stood now. This one had been a captain before, and had been the voice over the speakers at the convention. The 'pretty' captain. Thraen knew his crimes already, and didn't need proof of more. All that was left was one perfunctory query, "Surrender and reform, or stand as an officer of chaos. Your choice."
The German came to his mind anyway, seeing the man again after wishing, ultimately, that he wouldn't have to ever again. Du kannst mir gestohlen bleiben.
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Posted: Thu Nov 28, 2013 12:15 pm
Bischofite ceased in his tracks, more out of inevitability than shock toward the one who now faced him. He supposed it was inevitable to find him again - and ironic now, given his situation. Given his... weakness.
The once-general took a last drag of his cigarette before he carefully bent down and crushed it into the surface of the street. Ashes to mark his way home, if anything. And when he straightened up, he tugged on the hems of his jacket, as if to straighten it out from the ruffling it never really received. It took little effort to douse and set fire to a painting. It wasn't a terribly physical endeavor. Maybe it was just a new habit, as those cropped up like weeds these days.
Just like senshi.
For a long time, he did not answer the inferred ultimatum. It was strange to see the boy he knew before, the white-haired senshi with resolve unending and an inability to fight him on equal ground, stand so defiantly before him. What changed in this boy? He behaved so mildly before - though he had the ability to chastise the then-captain with scathing intent, he lacked the confidence and power to mete out any punishment for Bischofite's antisocial activities. And afterward? The boy escaped, and Bischofite cursed himself for his lapse in judgment which led to his impalement.
He still had that scar, he supposed, as he had many other scars. Monuments to failure, maybe. Monuments to change.
"You're different now." If he had a name, Bischofite forgot it by now. It was too long since they last met, amongst cables strung about a lone captive. "Tell me - does it surprise you to see me as I am now?" He raised his arms in a questioning gesture, though he resumed his approach toward the now-super senshi. "Isn't it strange how ze scales haf' shifted? For I was once of your level, and you were once of mine. But here we are now - a complete reversal from how we first met."
He paused, clicked his tongue. Smiled a little - sardonically, at least. He raised his index finger, as if to double back on his earlier statement. "However -- you haf' no trap laid for me here. You haf' no one at stake to teach me of any philosophies I might haf' never considered. Do you care to teach, or do you prefer to beat me to deas'? I can see in your eyes zat you might be leaning toward ze latter." In truth, he didn't see the point in baiting the senshi - but he hardly saw a point in powering up either. But maybe through pursuit of total suffering, he might free himself from the stagnation that threatened to dismantle him.
"Offer me a reason to reform, senshi."
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Posted: Thu Nov 28, 2013 1:14 pm
"To see you at all is more a surprise than any circumstance therein, " it was marked that the other felt either secure, confident, or devil-may-care enough to bend and drop eyes to put the cigarette out. Worse to keep on his slow approach- well, he knew what the effect of the flowers was, perhaps had determined to hold his breath to avoid the effect already.
Thraen didn't step back from the approach, but the set in the clear muscles of his collar and neck betrayed a growing guard, "I have no need of games, and I've made my intent very clear. 23 chromosome pairs of a human and your age mark you as having reason enough in that skull to make informed decisions. I am not some battlefield pedagogue. If you have no reasons yourself, and lack metacognition, the answer is plain. "
"I do not argue with the math of lives. Not beating, no philosophies. Execution." They carried starseeds often enough, and he'd now had the tragic experience of knowing just how long those would last before new supply had to be curried. The number of agents and the estimation of have many per week if they didn't need to use them, as that bomber-jacket lieutenant had, were already staggering. The death toll only went up from there- and it worsened with each agent left alive.
The trap and wires felt an age ago, a spell ago, and he had new power with a new twist- not just somnolence, easily avoided, but the vines that grew and sought purchase on those the flowers found. The Senshi summoned his magic on a breath "Thraen Perennial Planting!"
One way or another, but the end of your resistance, I will break your hands and then I will break the flute of a crow that lives in your throat.
Super Sailor Scout Ability: Thraen Perennial Planting How it Works - Thraen folds his hands together like holding a butterfly, the opens hands and they are full of seeds. He blows over them, dispersing the seeds. Hundreds of vined flowers spring up, growing and blooming magically. Their scent causes those who stand near them to fall asleep, while the vines bind them Range - The patch of vines and flowers that grows is a 12 ft radius around Thraen Duration - The flowers bloom in the post he casts them. If allies and enemies do not get at least 10 ft away from the flowers, they fall asleep like Dorothy in Wizard of Oz. The sleep lasts for 15 seconds. The vines, however, last until the flowerpatch vanishes, and they hold a person down, bound among the flowers. The patch lasts for 20 seconds before vanishing. Damage Summary - Someone might get a bruise from falling over. Weaknesses - If someone doesn't stay near them long enough, they don't fall asleep and get tangled. If people hold their breath, wear a breathing mask, or cover their mouth and nose with wet cloth can avoid the scent as well. Once a person has fallen asleep in one flower bed, they cannot be affected by that bed again. Only a separate bed would affect them. This is an AoE (area of Effect) spell that effects allies as well as enemies. Frequency of Usage - Twice a battle.
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Posted: Sun Dec 01, 2013 8:54 am
"I can watch someone suffer and die wis'out feeling anysing. Can you say ze same for yourself? I'f heard it characterized as an utter lack of empathy. I'f heard its comparison justified as a lack of mirror neurons, and zat zis condition arises in autism and various ozzer disorders zat produce violent reactions in ze individual. Sink about it - maybe I'm defectif'." He smiled. Oh, how he thought about this for ages - and now he finally faced an unmoving senshi, so entrenched in his own stark ideals, that could find justification for such thoughts in the obviously intelligent individual.
But the senshi would not have it. And that was fine, he considered, since they had trite roles to fill. Why linger in speech when an easy victory lay ahead? Bischofite had no delusions about his power - as a lieutenant with useless weapons and a marked lack of interest in defending himself, this vine-encrusted soul likely found strength in a death toll he could influence on his own. Negaverse agents are evil, as it is simple and comfortable to characterize them as such, so a quick offer to change before deciding their fate was enough to dismiss any chance of killing one who considered reforming.
However - that left the senshi rationalizing that all other agents of the Negaverse were useless without that desire to change, and that urging one toward considering changing did not justify the time it took to do so. Senshi magic was often weak - how could he consider an agent weaker? Why purify the chaos in those willing, when one could use the conflicted agent for subterfuge before crossing faction lines? This senshi has an incomplete understanding of how to use those around him - or maybe he just didn't care to consider it.
The flowers, deep and beautiful in color, exuded a scent he remembered from their first encounter. Holding his breath, Bischofite covered his face with the crook of his elbow and watched the senshi unwaveringly. He waited to see if the man bothered to recognize that the once-general defied senshi magic easily enough. That-
A stiff grip on his biceps pulled his meager cover from his mouth, and dragged him toward the swaths of flowers summoned by his adversary. And despite his struggles, while still retaining his breath, nothing managed to break the iron grip of - vines? Bischofite sneered in disgust at his inability to defy simple flora, and they soon dragged him to the ground amongst the flowers. He even felt a few press defiantly into his jacket, near his spine. And as his heart beat frantically with the jolt of adrenaline stemming from surprise, the lieutenant wondered if he could retain his soon-useless breath for the duration.
Suddenly he regretted picking up smoking again.
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Posted: Mon Dec 02, 2013 1:40 am
Thraen lifted an eyebrow when the other went on with his diatribe about what once was termed 'innocents' instead of 'defective'. Watching the man cover his nose and mouth was fulfilling, but earned no further changes in the Senshi of Garden's countenance. "He can learn."
"Vacillated as you like between self-recrimination and defensiveness. "
Theft, assault, disturbing the peace, murder, and kidnapping not the least, I'm sure, of your daily bread. That hostage you strung up was being crushed and suffocated both. That will do- I should feel the life go when it does. He was finding the more often he did get into skirmishes that his uniform wasn't entirely without merit- the wooden boots had served marvelously for Buddingtonite's hand, the bomber lieutenant's arm, the Teddy lieutenant, and now this one.
Thraen aimed a short series of kicks, hard as he could manage, at the Lieutenant's ribs. The aim was to break as many inwards as possible, mirror to the crushing aspect he'd witnessed himself. After that? Man's first weapons were his own hands and teeth- and through research strangulation seemed most often cited for the exacting precision mixed with intimacy it provided.
"Ein jedes Grab muß ein Acker sein, mein ewiger Samen fällt hinein.**"
litian
Good point for Athene maybe to start getting there
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(shhhould translate approx- ** Every grave is a plot of land, into which my eternal seeds do fall )
Posted: Tue Dec 03, 2013 12:26 pm
It was pretty late, but lately it was not an uncommon thing for Athene to be out on the patrol beat until quite late, just as it was not uncommon for the dark-haired eternal senshi to be out with some sort of hot drink or another in a take out cup at this time of year.
He'd had one earlier, but it was long gone, cup and contents used to clunk a youma on the head earlier. The youma was long gone, it relatively easy for him to dust a lot of them one on one at his level and the remainder of his evening had been pretty uneventful.
Mayhaps that's why when he picked up on the aura of the Super senshi relatively close by Athene had, after thinking on it for a moment or two, turned to head in its direction as he wondered if the owner would mind some company. His steps were pretty brisk, and he tried to keep his hand tucked into the material that made up the sleeves of his outfit, half-wishing for the hot drink back and wondering if he should just find some time to pick up a pair of simple gloves for use on nights like this.
Athene hadn't got far when he picked up on the second aura, one darker to that of the first, although weaker - he'd guess a Lieutenant if asked to make a guess based on the strength. He wasn't overly concerned though as he continued to head in the direction of the two auras although it didn't stop him from trying to keep alert in case the Lieutenant had back up with them.
The first strike occurred before he found freedom from the tendrils wound around his limbs. It elicited a breathless grunt, caught between teeth scraped away through blossoming pain.
The second strike occurred while the vines began their dissipation, and their departure was cued in the resounding crack that followed.
Bischofite could not determine if that was a break in the senshi's wooded boot.
The once-general writhed on the ground in wordless articulations of the utter agony that flooded his system, borne through the broken bones earned by the senshi's ire. All movement only antagonized the pain, and his breathing came in impossibly short, light respirations that amounted to little more than lightheadedness. Though sharp and immobilizing, he still managed to hear the other man's words through his suffering, and it stirred a still colder rage within the lieutenant. He responded in words rasped by broken ribs and broken breaths, but his words were clear, should the senshi be receptive to his native tongue. "Dann werd' ich alles, was du wachsen verderben!"
But no words, no flack or fury, quelled the onslaught.
If this was how it ended, then let him die in the street. Let him suffer a senseless death. Let him become a statistic attributed to a war that no one truly understood. And let his death stain Serpentine's honor irreparably for not having the foresight to keep an eye out for him, someone so iniquitous in nature that he practically earned the order for a kill-on-sight. And let him realize his complete and total failure as a superior officer the moment he read about it in the paper - or the moment he simply could not get ahold of the misanthrope or feel his signature during the night. It wouldn't matter how he came across the news, as long as he felt it in his bones.
And as he could not suppress the agonizing coughs that produced a trickle of blood down the back of his throat, he could not help but think maybe this is better than defecting. Maybe this is better than morphine. Maybe this is better than ripping out my own starseed, only for a member of the White Moon Court to return it to me.
I kept seeking it, and now it found me.
Ivynian
Then I will taint everything you grow.
litian
Posted: Wed Dec 04, 2013 2:14 pm
I'm fairly certain you've not eaten enough Twinkies to manage to pollute anything.
"We have both seen enough starseeds and death to know the will is ended as much as the life is, however strong your want." The work of breaking was done, so the senshi of gardens crossed the step or so, and straddled his enemy. It was over the lieutenant's chest, knelt so that the armored knee and unwooded one anchored the man's biceps.
Even a lieutenant can try to reach for my starseed. I will not fall for complacency as a ploy. So pinned, it seemed the reach was neutralized. Thraen pet his long fingers almost tenderly outside the high collar to inside on the throat. There they gripped firmly, not yet starting to strangle. The first, supposedly never forgotten once done. I will not shirk this. Gruesome necessity, but experience always has a first and most unfortunate victim.
"I'm sorry this won't be cleaner." Thraen's grip tightened like a vice. As a sculptor, he could name with precision each of the tendons and muscles beneath the ivory skin, beneath the callouses of his fingers.
The feeling of unconcern lasted until Athene was close enough to hear the sounds, frown flickering his face momentarily as it sunk in that the two auras that he'd picked up on, Lieutenant and Super, both seemed strongest in that direction.
Finally however decision made, Athene continued in the direction of the two auras, increasing his pace until eventually he was moving at a light sprint, the sounds of the soles of his boots hitting ground loud, so very loud in his ears.
He hadn't thought much as what he was going to do when he got there, hadn't thought much beyond the fact that the sounds sounded a little like the sounds that the senshi that had saved his life had made on the night that Painite had killed him.
Athene didn't want any more dead senshi - not on his watch.
It was probably therefore ironic when he eventually came upon them that it was not the senshi in danger, was in fact the other way, Athene for a moment standing frozen as he took in the scene in front of him.
And then as it sunk in that yes the super senshi, that Thraen, seemed like he was really serious about what he was about to do. "Thraen! Thraen stop!" As Athene spoke, he moved, feet feeling like they were stumbling as face pale he made to cover the distance between them.
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Posted: Thu Dec 05, 2013 5:45 pm
"It is not will-" He managed with crackling coughs between shallow breaths, but as the senshi sought to pin him to the ground, his precious remaining reserves of air whisked out of his body with undue urgency. Every desperate breath labored, even without Thraen's assistance, and with each strained and torturous gasp came a new, dawning realization - could his remaining ribs truly support the weight of the other man atop him? Would his breastplate simply collapse into his organs and end his life in a splinter of bone and marrow?
It is not will that carries such taint, he wanted to say. Will has nothing to do with it. Will is a human attribute, granted to us as some metacognitive form of instinct. It's largely superfluous and potentially pointless, just like your hands around my neck.
It is not will - it is the soil in which you plant those eternal seeds. You should know this, senshi, as a fundamental aspect in gardening - too acidic, and the plant dies. Too basic, and a different plant dies. And if the soil is warped and eaten away by pests, by pesticides, by heavy metals? Your fruits will wither and die, because my corpse will corrupt them. And as you eat the ones you find most appealing to you, most fitting of consumption, that very taint will live on inside you.
And in everything you do.
It is not will - it is the very fabric of my being.
It is a sickness you will die from one day, senshi.
Bischofite coughed uselessly, sputtered painfully when Thraen's fingers coiled around his neck. Their grip unexpectedly slight, he met the senshi's gaze with a soft prudence unexpressed toward other individuals. He waited during another crackling, agonizing rasp, which produced a pair of viscous beads of blood along the corner of his mouth. Interconnected by a thin line of red spit, they lingered indefinitely, as if waiting for the cold breeze to solidify their presence on the face of a drowning cadaver.
Unable to stifle the overwhelming pain that flooded down and manifested in a weakness in his fingertips, Alois rattled out a rasping, half-choked scream that was shortly cut off by Thraen's imposing grip. And the lieutenant reached for his potential murderer, not to return death in spades, but to seize his wrists in one last, weakened attempt at basic survival. A purely bodily reaction, much like coughing or sneezing or falling asleep. The body defied what the mind implied.
The slow death began silently - punctuated only by Thraen's labored breathing and the wet crackling coughs that escaped the lieutenant's lips, further staining them with blood. Occasionally a slight vocalization eked out of his throat, staccato and weak, as he tried one last time to mutter an oxygen-deprived indication of forgiveness.
Because this was a better death than what he had expected for himself.
And when the approaching eternal caught his attention with his worried shouting, Bischofite regarded him with a look of plaintive pleading - as he didn't want the senshi to interrupt what already began. He couldn't find a better end to his life than this. The man who sought his life expressed a basic compassion for him as a creature - a kindness bidden not out of sympathy, but out of understanding. No one had paid him such lofty dues before, not as Alois and certainly not as Bischofite.
And that was enough.
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Posted: Thu Dec 05, 2013 6:39 pm
Thraen's jaw was set firm enough that the groan of his own teeth against each other became a cadence in his own skull that accompanied the wet sounds of the Lieutenant's instinctual fight against what felt, at this point, inevitable. The human machine was admirable as ever- the simple strength and resistance that they all took for daily granted gave nauseating fight against his brutal strength. The man was powered, to be sure, which had to account for some of the trouble. A regular human throat would have crushed inward and mimicked overripe fruit.
There were some digs into his wrists, through the opera gloves, from the other's struggles, but that was acceptable. It didn't seem wholly a conscious decision, if the lieutenant qualified still as fully conscious, whether nails should bite or not. Thraen would wear them respectfully if they scarred, sad if they did not, mementos of the First and the last physical acts performed by this one. It was as the marks of nails in a headsman's block or the many scrawled letters in stone or glass on the walls of the Tower's dungeon or the remainders of demolished Newgate. Remainders? Reminders?
There was a sound of running, of feet. Thraen! Thraen stop!
He found his heart not quite halved- the part that remained, shudder muscled and requiring every ounce of will to master to the task leapt up worse than before. It was revulsion, horror, a friend see something so primal and destructive and most of all private. This was not art, nor constructive. This was not the expected work of an artist or a gardener- whichever Quenton or Thraen professed to want to be. But the larger part, the greater-than-half, felt his lower eyelid twitch and the lines of his sternocleidomastoideus working against his jaw and clavicle. His own voice came hollow from the back and bottom of his throat and lungs, "Athene, stand down."
"Your help is not needed here." Thraen didn't let up his grip. He kept his gaze down at the Lieutenant, who's name he didn't know. Don't interfere. Don't stand for him, Athene.
litian
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Posted: Sat Dec 07, 2013 4:33 am
Athene, stand down. Three simple words in response to his horrified shout, the taller blond senshi not even looking at him as he added that his help was not needed here.
"I can't." His response back was just as simple, as his feet continued to cover the distance between them. "Thraen, this isn't right!" This wasn't what they were supposed to be out here doing, wasn’t why the guardian cats had given them their pens - it was something Athene believed - otherwise what was to separate the White Moon from the Negaverse, the Negaverse to whom lives seemed so cheap.
But Thraen was still perched on the Lieutenant, those hands still tightening and Athene wasn't sure that he'd cross the distance in time, wasn't even sure what he'd do when he reached the two. Thraen was White Moon - just like him and he was reluctant to attack a fellow senshi, but nor could he just stand by and watch the other throttle the Lieutenant, refused to be a party to murder.
He had to separate the two somehow, although the how was a problem... Then suddenly an idea came to him, risky, but given that Thraen had never seen his senshi magic in play - with enough possibility to work that Athene was willing to take the chance - after all, all he needed to do was separate them and hopefully the shock of magic heading his way would be enough to cause the blond super senshi to move.
But before that he tried one last time to get the other to back off, to take a step back from this - this craziness. "Thraen, I’m asking you - please don’t do this." Because even though I'll do it if I have to. I... I don't want to use my magic on a fellow senshi.
how he loved hoped dreamed sought planned killed hated breathed
this man
this one single man could choke the life out of him and seek it for his own and Bischofite would willingly forsake such a rudimentary piece of himself knowing that these small victories dug like hooks into the flesh and would soon trawl him over the ocean depths with all the pains and miseries that he himself sustained during his blisteringly short lifetime.
the sun razed the beach into glass into sea glass collected by travelers afar and every minuscule pane entrapped pain aplenty.
who would remember him but his own murderer now?
a story sewn across the tired seas, bade by blood and bone and barbaric intent.
Kill me, he mouthed in all the blood his body could provide to the man with blonde hair and understanding eyes and cold vicegrip hands.
Kill me and take my breath away pass it on to all those empty vessels of your allies infect them with the tale of my demise, my broken throat like sea glass strewn across the beach and tell them of your atrocities but never, never tell them that the sun betrayed a modicum of empathy before the sand embrittled with its own reflection.
Just taste the breath I proved and pass the sea glass like bitter memories or return it to the churning oceans.
It doesn't matter now.
A last welling bubble of blood burst from the corner of his lip, like a short parade, like broken glass, and the once-general tried desperately
wholly and absolutely
to memorize the face of his murderer for a time when memory was fiction.
I can sleep.
Ivynian
i couldn't make you guys wait, sorry it's so weird and disjointed!
