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 MxF  Sci-Fi  Fantasy  Action/Adventure  Supernatural  Horror  Historical Mirror of fate (StormerX x Aey)

Discussion in 'Roleplay Haven' started by StormerX, Jun 23, 2020.

  1. StormerX

    StormerX Blades of wind....bolts of lightening. Member

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    Continuous waves of heat spread all around a lone figure, the figure was lying on its back motionless. To a casual observer, the humanoid figure will definitely appear dead, but taking a closer look, the continuous streams of sweat that leaked out of his pores will indicate otherwise.
    The figure's mind came on, it came on slowly, booting up like an old computer.
    After a minute or two of lying motionless still, the figure's mind still failed to give a fleeting insight into its owner's personality.
    All it could come up with, is the owner's gender.
    Yes, the figure lying forlorn and sweating like a pig in what appears to be no man's land is a male.
    A male....that's all.
    Age, name, even the recollection of his own voice all proved to be as elusive as vapor.

    His eyes remained shut, his brows knitting in frustration as he tried to cull up those memories, but the burning sensation that was all around him is proving to be too much of a distraction.
    His fuzzy mind that was vaguely aware of the ambient heat he was in has began to grasp the full reality of his predicament.
    His body began to scream, but his dry lips stayed shut, not that he could even vocalize his pain anyways, his throat felt so dry and parched that he's sure that his screams would only sound like scratched paper.
    Since his memory has failed him, and the burning questions about who he is are unanswerable at the moment, he decided to concentrate all of his energy into the way more profitable venture of asking the ones that he could answer.

    First and foremost, where the fuck is he?, and how on earth did he even get here?
    He'll have to answer them one at a time tho, and his shut eyes finally sprang open.
    He could feel the multiple beads of sweat roll down his nose and cheeks.
    But somehow, the profuse amount of sweat that he was producing, evaporate before they can even spend two seconds on his skin.

    The first images that his alarmed brown eyes noticed, is the steam of the evaporating sweat from his own body.
    It was a horrifying sight, and now he really began to panic.
    Maybe he's in hell, slowly roasting away from all his sins.
    But what sins?, he can't even remember his own name! Aren't the roasting sinners in hell supposed to remember their multiple sins?.
    Besides, he feels alive...or at least feels as if he's still on earth.
    Its a very weird feeling that he can't explain, but his gut tells him that he's still on earth.
    But why is he not roasting or getting a scald from all this madly hot steam from his own sweat?, why is he even still alive?.
    All this and more questions coupled with the deep searing pain that engulfed his very consciousness drove him madly insane.



    His body began to jerk violently ,wherever he is, its barely illuminated, and from the solid and rigid pressure that he felt all over his back, he knows that its most likely made of metal.
    In panic, he sat up like a puppet that had its string jerked violently, but the moment he rose halfway, he felt a searing hot bump on his forehead.
    A very loud hiss followed, as more steam oozed out of the forehead like smoke from a cigarette butt.
    He heard a savage guttural and scratchy sound....it took him a few seconds to realize that the primal vocalization came from him. His throat, parched or not had given in to the primal urge to yell his heart out when he got a fantastic burn from whatever metallic object that smacked his head right back to the ground where it got boiled over some more.
    Is this it?, he'll die in some metallic, roasting coffin with no recollection of his name?, who he is or what he's done to deserve such torture?.
    He was losing his mind, his body thrashing violently, and the scratchy screams becoming more constant as pain raged through his very heart with no end in sight.

    Then he heard laughter...actually a group of laughs, they all sounded triumphant and cruel.
    He began to wonder once more what terrible acts he's done to deserve this horrible fate.
    By now he was desperately wishing for death, but his skin seemed to suffer absolutely no harm from the devastating heat....he's trapped....trapped in the coffin, trapped in this torture.
    The realization brought bitter tears to his eyes, its one thing to suffer for what you're aware of, its another thing entirely to suffer when you can't even remember your own name.



    Meanwhile,outside the metallic coffin-like structure, a group of people listened with glee as the bitter cries rang out from the steaming coffin.
    Mugs clanked, people talked excitedly and everyone seemed to be happy about this mindless torture.

    But things changed in a hurry.

    It began with a piercing scream, then it deepened into what sounds like a terrifying roar.
    The once happy people were struck dumb with shock as the ground began to tremble violently...people scampered to safety, leaving the coffin to vibrate for a few seconds, before being bust wide open.
    Eyes widened in shock and stared at the beast that emerged...not your typical horror movie character, no horns or wings and fangs.

    Only a skin that had become completely red with dark veins bulging and pulsing in a powerful intimidating rhythm.
    Eyes that can best be described as a pair of glowing red orbs.
    The figure stared maliciously at the shocked and crestfallen faces that amassed before him.
    He inhaled the endless steam that wafted from all over his body. His usually short and spiky dark hair had gained a wild and long appearance.

    The memories suddenly came back...who he is, the things he's done, and why he's here.
    Despite recalling many terrible things that he has done, his eyes remained hardened with the flames of revenge burning brightly in them.

    Then to everyone's shock, he slowly reduced in size, his skin reverting to the usual golden brown and his appearance becoming that of a troubled and quite striking young man.
    He jumped off the ruins of the ruined coffin and simply walked away with his head bowed, and sweat still streaming down his shirtless back.
    He has one thought and one thought only.

    Find the mirror of fate and separate this evil entity from his being.
     
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  2. Aey

    Aey All_Seeing Member

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    The weather was overcast -- the land anxiously awaited the sweet reward of rains that may, or may not arrive.

    The tavern was one of the only buildings one could see located in this spacious, dry valley of this part of the world. The grasslands. Clearly, this building was constructed by a previous generation -- wood workers with serious experience in construction. This tavern was made with smooth, dark wood with a large, supported, covered porch, a brief, sturdy staircase leading to the entryway and an archway carved into the tall roof. Crafted, dusty windows could be observed on the front of this building. The roof was covered in stone shingles and a chimney billowed smoke slowly from the center of this rectangular building. The doorway to this tavern had a equally crafted sign hanging from fishing wire and a nail, which read "Benson's" and nothing more. It appeared to be hanging slightly askew -- but no one bothered straightening it. A trigger bell could be seen in the right corner of the doorway to announce incoming patrons.

    Nearby, down and to the left of the worn out, dusty roadway that had seen countless traveler's boots and merchant carts, a smaller residence could be seen. This building appeared older and more-worn in than the tavern, itself. Crafted by one could only assume a surviving farmer's hands. Stone walls and a reinforced stone-and-dried-grass rooftop, a chimney at one end, broken at the top. Beside that, a windmill, slowly rotated in the afternoon's breeze. It was surrounded by a thin fence, which encased an even smaller garden, attempting to bloom in this dry, dusty climate. These are the only buildings one could see when traveling along this particular roadway. A windmill landmark, by a house, next to a tavern.

    The dusty, worn-out roadway lead beyond to the hazy, rocky hillsides and horizon. Most who travelled here were assumed to be travelling from two seperate, large cities. If one travelled right, from the tavern, they'd arrive to the forest city, integrated into the rocky, mountainous hillside. The other, a city by the ocean-side, located beyond the rocky, forest hillside to the left.

    Inside the tavern, few patrons could be observed. One in particular, a female, sitting alone at the bar, drinking ale from a cup with a distant, slightly drunk, unfocused look to her face. Her back was turned away from the other random strangers who had taken to sitting around the center-fire-pit, idly muttering comments and stories to one another to pass the time. This tavern had two rooms for lodging, pricing at goldpieces twenty per night or as most people said, GP20. A higher price than average, for people of the spacious, grassland regions.

    The woman, sitting at the bar, alone, adjusted her weight on the stiff, creaky barstool idly. Her brown, curly hair was tied up into a simple bun, her bangs sweeping to the left of her face. An hour or so before this, she had walked half a day from the forest city, from the right, starting at the crack of dawn to arrive at this tavern during this afternoon. Her coat, with modern-design, was as grey as the overcast sky outside -- dusty from the grounds she travelled from. It draped down to her shins when standing upright. She wore form fitting, black cottons and leather pants beneath the modern coat's layers. Her scent -- unlike the fermented, indoor sweat from the male patrons lounging behind her -- was slightly salty from the sweat of her journey and was laced with the mysterious haze of greenery, flowers and stone, indicating her previous whereabouts. The woman's dark, slightly baggy boots were caked with dried mulch at the toes. A black leather bag with an over-the-shoulder-strap rested at her feet, protected. Around her slender, smooth neck, hung a rather heavy, glittering, pure silver cross, about the size of the average hand. This cross appeared to be in the shape of a sword, blade pointed downward with sharp rays of silver encased, spreading outward like the sun, for hilt guards. A mysterious, multicolored jewel glittered at the joint between the blade and the hilt. Two silver rings rested on each of her slender ring fingers.

    Unbeknownst to the male patrons behind her, who all donned assorted iron or leather armor, weapons lazily discarded on the nearby tables, this woman was a lone Cleric. Her weapons could not be seen, from this angle. It mainly made the bartender slightly nervous. She could sense everyone's state of being -- their health, their faith, their intentions, their money. The woman smoke and drank fairly often, which allowed her mind to "ignore people" better. Being in crowds, in cities, or dangerous situations caused her inner powers to emerge in full-force. Wearing silver gave her body a way to channel and mask the energy of her sensitive nature, her holiness.

    She finished off her cup of ale and motioned to the bartender lounging behind the counter for yet another round.

    The bartender gave a funny look towards the slightly flushed face of the woman. "Haven't you had enough yet, doll?" he drawls, walking over to retreive her cup, unsure whether or not to pour. She had so much alcohol already, the bartender had lost count of how many refills he had poured. The woman appeared unfazed from the amount of alcohol she was intaking.

    From the coat pocket, the woman produces yet another gold piece, for his troubles. "The name's Janette," she says rather seriously, looking the tender in the eyes with her own sharp, blue irises and narrowed brows. Ghosts of an experienced past flicker there -- experience that said bloodshed and no remorse -- it makes the tender break away and automatically pour her another round.

    Janette welcomed the cool, foamy, bitter taste of the warm ale on her tongue, filling in her slightly bloated belly. She lets her mind wander as her eyes unfocus once more on nothing in particular. Her toned, sturdy muscles, hidden beneath her dark clothing, ached slightly from fatigue and bloat. She quietly burps into a fist, letting some of the carbonation in her belly escape in relief.

    The bartender doesn't try to ask any further questions, personally pocketing the gold piece sitting on the bartop rather than adding it to the till.

    Janette remains silent, aware and unaware, at the same time.
     
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  3. StormerX

    StormerX Blades of wind....bolts of lightening. Member

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    It's a tough job to stay alive.....yes, when the cost of living is to be considered. When the countless risks that man must push through in this current age to put food on the table and a roof over his head. To keep himself afloat in the raging and uncertain waves and tides of the ocean of life. Yeah...it's a tough job to stay alive.
    At least, this will be the major reasons for most people to agree with that phrase. Those people have never had to will themselves awake through the cloak of the night's darkness for fear of losing control. They haven't had to learn to obsessively profile every step, every action. Watching with a weary and sharp mind's eye, calculating anyone and anything or situation that might lead to a slip....just a moment of weakness.



    Just a moment of weakness



    That's all the beast inside the steaming figure with his head bowed, and his boots plodding through the thirsty soil at a brisk rate can think about.
    Just a moment of weakness.....it was all it took for this handsome young man to become a devil....to become everyone's living nightmare, most especially his own.
    Just a moment of weakness.
    His face was bowed instinctively. A reflex action to keep his true identity safe. Not that he needed to though, as every single person who had laughed, every single person who had hopped and stomped and jubilated at his apparent destruction in the boiling coffin were too busy running like rabbits.
    Their scampering feet kicked up a thick layer of dust, and was accompanied by a chorus of panic and terror as men, women and children ran for their very lives.
    The dust is good for him really, it'll help to further conceal his face from any member of the stampeding horde that becomes ambitious.
    The panic was raw, the chaos unbridled. It's not too hard to figure out why too. If a beast that was unprovoked could wreak as much havoc as it did last night, who knows what it'll do now that an attempt has been made on it's life?.

    His steps were brisk still, not quickening to a sprint or a jog, yet not receeding into a crawl.
    His head might be bowed, but his peripheral vision enabled him to have a clear view ahead of him.
    He watched with focus as the image of the flailing hands and screaming people got interspersed with the drying grassland and scattered trees.
    He recognizes this place. This was where he passed the night. Passed the night as a human, as a man...as him.
    Yes, everyone fleeing from him right now might think he's a beast, no! The beast. But he's not, he's a man, he feels pain, and suffers loss. He thinks before he acts, was raised to learn and exhibit respectable manners. No he's just not a man, he's a gentleman.....or so he'd like to think....or so he was raised to be.
    The screams began to fade, the trampling feet, the smell of panic and the vibes of chaos along with them.

    It took a few more minutes but he soon found himself alone. Alone in the open grassland that dominated the side of the dusty dirt road.

    The sun shone down on him, infusing him with newfound strength and stinging life back to his raw and firing nerves.

    He might have suffered no burns or scald while he was inside the coffin, but his nerves registered every agonizing ripple. And right now, those agonizing pangs were searing through his very being. Encasing him in a fireball of pain and rage and hate fused with regret and self loathing. It was a lot, but each emotion mamaged to make itself felt, and burned with a blazing vigor.

    He stopped once he reached next to a tree. The earth surrounding it was still slightly brown, showing that it had been disturbed sometime in the near past. Disturbed by him actually.
    This was where he buried the huge sack containing his personal effects.
    Life on the run as a wandering man with a tainted soul, who's chasing after an elusive artifact has taught him a lot.

    He took in a deep breath and fell on both knees. Then he slowly began to sink downwards, it didn't take too long for his palms to land on the earth and curl into it in a slow and shredding clamp. His whole body began a slow but prominent series of vibrations as he felt the remnants of sweat begin lazy migrations down his frame to drop into the semi-thirsty earth or to evaporate to the influence of the heating sun's rays.
    He closed his eyes as a swarm of thoughts seized his mind.
    His transformations always leave him severely drained. Both physically and mentally.
    He had anticipated it....felt it, struggled and tried to avoid it. That was why he refrained from passing the night at the nearby inn and chose to spend it amongst the trees and chirping insects instead. Far from the people, far from their properties.
    But even then, despite his efforts, despite his precautions...he knew that his ugly transformation was inevitable. And so, ignoring the aches and the fatigue that plagued him from walking nearly a full day to get here, he approached this very tree, and used the surge of destructive intent that heralds his transformation to repeatedly pound his fists into the ground.

    Images of his straining hands smashing into earth again and again flooded his mind as his closed eyes tightened.
    He can recall the thuds, can recall the startled silence that fell upon the grassland as it's natural inhabitants caught wind of his loosening sanity.
    He can recall how his fists pounded with increasing urgency and the sick euphoria he derived from it in his twisted state of mind.
    He remembered how his pounding fists increased their tempo and urgency. Smash afterer smash, he recalled the increasing pulsing current of release he had felt. He recalled how his sanity slowly slipped away from him with every sickening thud.
    He knew it...he was losing. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold it much longer.
    The images playing in his head soon began to blur and fizzle at intervals. At one point, they were of the giant dark crater that his bestial pummeling wrought on the earth. After a few more twisted images tho, the image of his straining and bleeding arms grabbing the noticeably heavy sack that bore his personal effects came on.
    With an unnatural effort, he had heaved the heavy sack into the crater and began an erratic and tumultuous flurry of activity to fill up the crater with earth.

    The recollections plagued him, causing his body to shake even harder as the memories of the pleasure he derived from such banal actions swarmed him.
    He was desperate, he couldn't give up...not without a fight at least. He couldn't just give up to the consuming presence inside him. Even if any resistance he could offer is only laughable at best, he had to try. And that what was he did with the crater and the sack. A futile attempt to exercise control and tell the beast that it doesn't control him.
    The recollections faded after that. His mind plagued with the memory of the red haze and unnatural roaring of the blood that pounded in his head.


    It was slightly less than an hour after the chaos when the same young man who has finally managed to compose himself and get dressed in something other than the charred ruins that survived his coffin episode stepped into the bar.
    His brown eyes were sharp, but the utter fatigue behind them would not be too hard to spot with trained or experienced eyes.
    He was no longer coated in sweat, and was now dressed in a slightly loose black cotton shirt, with equally dark leather pants to match.
    He marched straight to the nearest barstool he could reach and did a fair job of preventing himself from fully collapsing on top of it.

    His pants bore the sheathe to a sturdy dagger that has served him well whenever his brass knuckles and gauntlets aren't equipped. Odd choices of weapons for a man who earns majority of his livelihood by working as a wandering mercenary.
    Not just any mercenary tho, one who hides his face behind the clever wrappings of a black scarf and is known widely as "the Wraith".
    He's among the most notorious and successful mercenaries in the realm. If only those who hire him know that he secretly wishes to die in one of his battles. He's not a coward, and as much as he desires death, he can't bring himself to try suicide. Not that it stands a good chance of working to begin with.

    With a swift wave of his hand, and an intense glare at the bartender, his first cup of ale was swiftly filled.
    The keeper swallowed in the presence of the sharp eyed man who looks every inch a mercenary, but also every inch a man beaten down by the elements of his life.
    "Tough day?"
    He finally ventured to ask as the man downed his ale with tired gulps. Every inch of the man reeked and spelled intrigue and mystery....with a twinge of great evil and danger. Aren't all mercenaries supposed to be this way tho?.
    He got nothing but heavy gulps in response till the metallic tankard containing his ale slammed on to the wooden table. It slammed with an emphatic clang that made the poor man jump slightly at the suddenness it occurred with.
    "Everyday's a tough day"
    That was his curt response and it didn't encourage any further comment.
    The keeper got it at once that the man would prefer to be left alone. What a character, he might be tired and beaten, but it'll be safe to say that he's no less dangerous.

    Brown eyes glazing over, soul and spirit dampened yet flailing simultaneously, laced with the foul aura of a beast that isn't him. One that wants to consume him.
    All the man known as Hector can do is to reset. For he knows that the once fleeing mob will return soon with backup. Backup that can actually hurt him and the beast that protected from certain doom. The holy and dreaded sect known to most as the Cross.
    The people found him drained after the beast's destructive escapades and seized his unnaturally drained body to exact their revenge and fury....only it backfired.
    But the Cross? The Cross is something that he and the beast must truly worry about.
     
    Last edited: Jun 28, 2020
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  4. Aey

    Aey All_Seeing Member

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    The man -- who's aura felt beastlike yet weary -- practically flopped himself onto the barstool. Janette's nerves jumped with surprise from the heavy, exhausted impact the man produced. He had entered the roadside inn quickly -- yet his whole body, even his spirit, seemed to drag and practically scream, despite the man's haunting, growling-like silence. When the man spoke, his tone was curt and garbled, almost as if he was bleeding out from a hidden stab wound but his body clearly wasn't bleeding. Janette watched from her intoxicated peripherals how the man barely had the strength to motion to the bartender yet there was this underlying sense of rage that radiated off his tired body like the summer sun.

    Then it hits her -- this was The Wraith. No wonder why Janette couldn't recognize his face -- the black head wrappings, the scarf, the deadly feelings this man produced, his curt words -- oh, yes. It was why Janette felt so on edge all of a sudden.

    Her silver, sword-like medallion and chain were growing warmer and warmer on her chest and around her neck as Janette attempted to not directly observe this intense, infamous mercenary. She attempts to finish her ale quietly, debating on whether or not to pack up, pay her tab, and leave the inn.

    The few inn-patrons who had been lounging around the center fire-pit of the bar had grown quiet, drinking their own drinks with a hushed like atmosphere. The Wraith was known to be quick and sometimes fairly ill-tempered, and extremely supernatural, from what rumors Janette picked up on over the years. One doesn't gain a reputation like The Wraith does without destroying a few towns and possibly innocent lives along with that type of destructive power. But he was also known to be illusive -- disappearing for years at a time sometimes without ever leaving a trace or indications as to when he'd return. But Janette wasn't going to preach that she was a know-it-all. Janette mainly believed that many rumors were tall tales, and fueled by gossip. Rumors could be false -- she wasn't going to go making assumptions without directly experiencing something, first-hand.

    Janette's chest flutteres with a sense of uneasiness. Absentmindedly, she touches her sword-like medalion with slightly clammy fingers. The silver metal was warm to the touch -- warmer than what body temperature could produce. If she had to, she'd defend herself against this illusive, and powerful being. She wagered that she'd probably lose the fight, sorely, against The Wraith. But something tugged at the rogue-Cleric that was her own spirit. She felt like she'd defend The Wraith. She'd protect him by diffusing any situation that arises toward the man. If any of the lounging patrons decided to perk up and socially poke at the mercenary sitting at the bar, Janette would fend them off. She didn't fully understand why she felt like she had to defend, but something about kicking a man while he's down was a cowards' way of justifiying their pitiful, sad little life. Cowards ticked Janette off. She'd defend any soul that appeared as weary as The Wraith appeared, during these moments. If it wasn't the mercenary and happened to be someone else, she'd defend. That's just how she operated.

    However, she also wasn't trying to pick a fight now, with anyone. She didn't exactly have the need to socialize, as most conversations were bland and predictable. Cowards poking at weary warriors, gossip from bartenders and widows, mercenaries journeying for their next kill-contract -- these facts didn't change no matter what city, or what culture. Janette just wanted to gain some strength back after walking the miles she had before continuing onto her destination; the ocean-side city.

    But the years from her own life experience made her muscles prepare for any possible outcome. As Janette idly fiddled with her medalion, feeling its warmth, she silently prayed to the Gods above who listened and followed her tiny existence. She was having a good time, and wanted to continue doing so, by enjoying decent drinks and food along her journey. She wanted to continue experience agreeable company that didn't remind her of the past she was working hard to forget. She prayed, as Clerics do, for the safety and protection of those around her, The Wraith included. She silently asked for the Gods above to give strength to the exhausted, and clearly troubled mercenary, sitting at the bar beside her. He may be a threat, and may have rage, but Janette felt like he could use divine energy that would neither reject him or torture him. She silently hoped that his spirit would experience divine energy that understood how to navigate around his inner wounds, so maybe he could feel a sense of clarity, or a sense of healing. Like a river cleansing a dirty stone -- or like how one can use the ocean to wash away sand from a shell.

    Janette silently thanked the divine Gods who listened to her small, tiny, whispering voice. She thanked them for how they granted her that very same sense of cleansing strength. She didn't ask for it often -- sometimes the divine answered with no answer, or no energy at all. But in this moment, to her, experiencing divine energy was like standing in the ocean -- gentle waves washing across her spirit and body. Cool and refreshing, calming and revitalizing. Her medalion felt like it was beginning to cool in her fingers in time with the divine waves she silently experienced. She hoped that somehow, some way, the patrons around her would feel that same sense, The Wraith especially, and all will remain well, for these moments, before she continued along.
     
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  5. StormerX

    StormerX Blades of wind....bolts of lightening. Member

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    Hector's eyes were completely locked on to the swirling and foamy liquid that was in the tankard before him. To say that he's a man that's grasping at everything he has left will be to describe him accurately.
    Every single thing he has today, everything he has now.... everything that has managed to survive the powerful tide of change and evil that the fledgling presence inhabiting his very soul has brought. He has had to hold on to them tight, clinging savagely even in some cases.

    He can count the them if he cared to do so.....of he didn't have so much already on his frayed but overactive mind.
    -Should he spend the night here?-
    -can he spend the night here?-
    -what could possibly go wrong?-
    -is it really worth the risk?-
    -just how much of a threat are the Cross and their overzealous followers to a nightmare of a warrior like him, and a presence that has made him question the limits of reality?-

    Wave after wave of thoughts and counter-thoughts shot back and foet in his weary mind like a heated debate. In this state? He could barely notice the slightly dirty looks laced with a spectrum that ranged from corncern, through worry and all the way to damn dread that he got from the other patrons that have decided to stop gracing the bar with the ambience of their idle chatter and knowing chuckles.
    They say that ale tastes a whole lot better when the consumer is in high spirits and swimming in laughter and boisterous chuckles amidst sly whispers and suggestive banter. It's one of the reasons why many people would prefer to drink in the company of others, feeling that air and uplifting ambience of fun and utter frolicking.
    For Hector? The foamy liquid has always tasted the same to him no matter where or when he gulps it.
    It doesn't matter if it's during battle over mutilated corpses and bitterly crying men. It doesn't matter if he's sitting all alone in the forest with a campfire lit and the only the symphony of insect chirps to keep him company....it doesn't even matter if he's in a bar like he Is now. The taste remains the same.

    The taste remains the same because he doesn't care about his environment when he drinks. The taste remains the same because he doesn't even pay attention to the taste of the foamy and tingling liquid that makes the short journey from his open mouth to his throat.
    The taste remains the same because he doesn't drink to enjoy the taste or to loosen his mood in order to facilitate wrangling with strangers or openly ogling and flirting with any woman in sight.

    No! He drinks not to loosen his mood but to loosen the permanent, draining knot that has made his throat it's home since his very first act of wanton bloodshed.
    He doesn't drink because he hopes to forget his worries in a drunken stupor, but he drinks with the knowledge that his mind and sanity no matter how frayed they may be from the gnawing fangs of the beast, no matter how frail he might feel them become......they are parts of him that can never be doused by the intoxicating smell of alcohol.
    The drinks don't soothe the sharp edges of the rain of spikes that his body mind and soul are constantly exposed to. Instead they simply help him pass time while he wallows in his plight and despair.

    -A broken man on a selfish quest to regain the one thing he's always obsessively grabbed onto....control.-

    Hector eyed the remaining contents of his tankard intently. Focusing so hard on it that it would surely ignite the whole thing if it was possible.
    He took one deep weary breath and sucked in some precious air into his lungs, then his shaky hand grabbed his cup and raised it to his quivering lips once more.
    Gulp, gulp, smack!
    Yet again the bottom of his now almost empty cup slammed into the unevenly smooth surface of the table before him.
    Hector is not a man that flees from his troubles, he's not a man that flees from the truth. He's come to learn that it doesn't pay through a series of harsh experiences. So instead of hiding behind the ignorant bliss and euphoria of a drunken haze, he instead yanks off the lid to Pandora's box once more by allowing his mind crawl into those deep and dark crevices where the images of last night's massacre are buried.
    With his fist slowly clamping round his cup, and his breaths shooting in and out in ragged yet relatively steady streams, he closed his eyes once more to peer into Pandora's box.

    -He wasn't dissapointed-

    Almost instantly, that familiar yet ominous pounding and roaring of his own blood against his ears enveloped his senses. Once again, the recollections of those images covered in a red haze flitted into the view of his mind's eye.
    He saw walls...blurry walls, cracked walls....broken walls and powder in place of what used to be stone.
    The concoction of screams that were floating into his subconscious was like the steam that was hanging over him when he jumped off the coffin.

    The images once more got distorted before realligning like the precipitating clouds outside.
    Now he saw red....in more ways than one. It was no longer just a haze, it was on the unfocused images of the walls he saw....on the rocky and dusty grounds that filled his visions. Then, as if playing catch-up, the horrendous sounds that led to the ocean of crimson he was visualising played back in his head.
    They were distinct... then they all melted into one fluid and continous disturbing symphony.

    -He could hear one and he could hear all-

    Tearing flesh....smashing walls, breaking bones and shattered skulls.
    He could hear the screams of terror and the garbled mess of animal vocalizations and human screams. He could hear the loud pitch of womens' heart breaking, of childrens' innocence being smashed into a million pieces....irreplaceable pieces.
    He could hear the grunts and the gasps of roused men, as they fell into hypnotic panic. Finding themselves unable to protect be themselves, to protect their families.
    Then came the smells. The flesh crawling, sharp and pungent bile of blood. The rising dust and the faint smell of the midnight vapors.
    The chaos....the fear, the carnage and the decimation.......the beast.

    He opened his eyes shortly after. No...Hector won't run from the horror of his actions. He won't try to escape the tendrils of evil that emanate from him. Instead he'll embrace it. He'll let it sting him and burn him, he'll let it strengthen his resolve and push him to accomplish his one burning goal. Finding the mirror of fate or die trying.

    Another deep breath escaped his lips as he replaced the lid to Pandora's box. The red haze slowly cleared. The roaring and pounding in his head along with it.
    He's always felt better after confronting the depravity of his actions, but for some reason he feels a lot better this time.
    It was like a gentle soothing wave of succor and hope tingling and vibrating through bhis spinal column. He could feel it slowly but surely easing all the knots of anticipation and irritation...all the fears, all the hate and all the pain.
    It was in this state that his head slowly dropped onto the top of the table. He turned to his left to behold a glittering pair of silver rings sitting graciously on slender and nimbke looking fingers. Obviously it was a woman's, but right now, he really didn't care.
    Once again, he closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.


    -It isn't over till it's over-
     
    Last edited: Jul 12, 2020
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  6. Aey

    Aey All_Seeing Member

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    The man's forhead gently hit the bar tabletop with a rather sturdy thud. Janette was pulled out of her prayers upon the noise and the vibration of weight of the impact.

    She was unaware of the man's inner thoughts however during her silent meditation she had noticed how darkness seemed to pull in her mind's eye. It was the kind of darkness that only few experience. These few people carried the heavy, dark burdens of strife -- struggle -- bloodshed. Janette wasn't a stranger to bloodshed -- but this darkness went much further, and much more toxic than the kind that Janette experienced in her thirty years of life. This darkness was incomparable to the few tittering, whispering patrons behind both Janette and the Wraith, sitting a few feet from one another at the bar.

    That's when Janette noticed that the man, the Wraith, had idly turned his cheek downward and happened to be looking in her direction. Brown eyes were unfocused, yet appeared to be resting on her hand that held onto her cup of ale. The Wraith's brows were narrowed -- eyes unfocused -- as if the man were troubled, lost in his own thoughts and memories.

    Janette gave a very brief, idle huff of humor. The ale's intoxication in her system allowed for a type of confidence Janette didn't feel when she was sober.

    She turned her head slightly, blue eyes taking in the way the Wraith's features appeared rather handsome and sharp -- he didn't appear much older or younger than she did -- and she gently pointed a ringed figure briefly toward the clearly troubled, still sober man, beside her.

    "Didn't your mother ever tell you that staring is rude...?" Janette murmured toward the Wraith. With a small wiggle of the fingers his unfocused eyes appeared to be resting on, Janette hoped that he'd take the comment in good humor, unsure of how the man would react from the gentle taunt. Nevertheless, she offered a small, intoxicated smile toward the infamous hitman.
     
  7. StormerX

    StormerX Blades of wind....bolts of lightening. Member

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    Weariness is a plague, and getting relief from it is like stepping into a shaded area after getting baked by the sun for hours. Hector definitely feels that way right now. His eyes were closed but his lids were as unsteady as his current form.
    The strange comforting waves that travelled through his spine and reverberated through his entire body gave him something to really smile about. Nevermind that it was a half smile or even a ghost one, it was a pure reflex action that occurred without much thought and or processing from his already weary mind.

    He tried to picture his own version of tranquility. What could that be tho? What could pacify a soul so weary and drenched up to it's eyeballs in darkness and in pain. Many men would see a face, most likely a woman's. A lover's most of the time, and in some rare cases a sister or mother. But him? He saw nothing but clear blue skies. He focused on the motion of the imaginary clouds as they danced and melted against the influence of the sharp rays of sun in his mind. He was content, safe to say that he was in his happy place and he was more than content with sleeping like that.

    Then he heard it....first the unfocused huff, then the words that followed. Both vocalizations ran through his papery mind for a few seconds before he could make any sense of them.
    His first reaction was to slowly peel his eyes open. They were still glazed with a sort of euphoria in them, but they were no longer unfocused. Instead they converged to focus on the flushed face of the woman beside him. The one whose finger bore the ring.
    Was she serious? Was she flirting? It's hard to tell. Despite his fearsome reputation, he's had his fair share of female attention of both the healthy and unhealthy kind.

    At last, his lips parted, his head refusing to leave the table. The Wraith might've dismissed her all together or just pushed for skipping the introductions and getting to the lust. But Hector, in this rare and priceless state of relief takes another route.
    A small smile hung at the corner of his lips, his sense of humor finding him in his tranquil state.

    "As a matter of fact, she advised me to appreciate the beaty and charms of the world. Said it'll help me live longer"
    He paused slightly while his lazy gaze roamed from her face down to the glittering cross on her neck.
    "You're not offended are you?"
    He concluded in his deep drone, deciding to really keep an eye on her now that he spotted the cross on her neck. She just managed to really grab his attention, and he pushed himself back to a sitting position to confirm it.
     
    Last edited: Jul 31, 2020
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  8. Aey

    Aey All_Seeing Member

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    Janette remained a little more motionless than she'd like to admit outloud as the lone man slowly rose, sitting up from his previous position faceplanted on the countertop. His voice was mellow -- a little rough -- as if he'd screamed a lot in the recent past. Although his features appeared handsome, young yet mature, she couldn't help but feel slightly leery of The Wraith. He was probably a lot stronger than the average man -- or average fighter in general. But the smile curling at the corners of his mouth indicated that perhaps Janette caught him on a good day.

    His question pulled another short, huffing type of laughter from her chest. "I was hoping that you wouldn't be offended," Janette chortled quietly. "You seem... a little exhausted. Sorry -- I've been drinking for a couple hours before you got here. The ale here isn't half bad."

    In the corner of Janette's intoxicated gaze, the bar tender was seen rolling his eyes in a way that silently said 'tell me about it -- she won't stop drinking -- I'm about to quit pouring for her!' Janette paid no mind. She was used to all sorts of judgement from all sorts of people.

    "I didn't mean to pester you," Janette quietly mentions to The Wraith beside her. "You should rest. You seem like the type of man who doesn't get those chances very often. What with your mom offering you survival advice -- appreciating the beats and charms -- all that." Janette loosely waves a ringed hand in a dismissive, amicable way, humorously trying to hide a smirk from the man beside her. That's when she noticed Hector's dark gaze flicking to the silver sword medalion dangling around her slender neck.

    Janette idly touches the medalion out of habit -- noticing that its temperature was cool now, like the temperature of a creek on a summer's day.

    "This is mine," Janette says rather quickly in a firmer tone, although her blue eyes glitter with a flash of mischeif toward The Wraith. "It's not for sale -- if that's what you're wondering. But hey -- I'm about to step outside for a smoke. You could probably bring a chair outside if you'd care to join me? Maybe rest your eyes in a less crowded settting. It's kind of bright in here, anyways -- the lighting." Janette finished her cup of ale in a swig, body language indicating her indifference and intentions to eventually step outside onto the porch of the building. She appeared to be squinting slightly to block out some of the light eminating from the firepit and chandeliers of the building.

    "Just don't steal the chair. They're handmade by myself, alone," the bartender mutters quietly from behind the counter. He appeared somewhat relieved Janette was finished, taking her empty cup shortly after the woman set it down, discarding it into a water bucket behind the bar. "You want another round, mister?" The tender offers The Wraith.

    Janette stood up then, paying no mind to the tender's comment, swaying slightly from her intoxication. She offers a small smile and friendly shrug to The Wraith, wondering if he'd follow her outside. She was curious about calling him by his real name, but she didn't want to overstep his privacy. It was an old habit to give everyone the same amount of respect and courtesy, even if she wasn't returned the favors much of the time. Janette idly fished for her pack of smokes in her coat pocket, patting around on her person loosely to find her missing lighter. She began walking out of the bar towards the front door, still searching her pockets with squinted, intoxicated eyes. The few patrons who were comfortably sat around the firepit in the center of the building seemed to watch her gait with quirked brows and frowning faces.

    "Ah!" Janette's voice announces to herself as she reached the front door, discovering her lighter in a hidden inside pocket of her coat. At this time, she flipped up the hood of her jacket over her head. She also placed an unlit smoke in between her lips and opened the door, her slightly swaying stride taking her out onto the covered porch of the bar, away from The Wraith.
     
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