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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:03:15 GMT -5
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:15:51 GMT -5
House of Mystery Issue II:
Doorway to Nightmare
Written by: Various Writers
Cover by: Ramon Villalobos
Edited by: Masoud "Crow" House |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:17:35 GMT -5
Its Halloween night. Outside, the sky is black, save for one light: the Full Moon. And despite feeling the need to stay safe and warm within your home, you decide to take a walk outside.
A fog covers the streets; a breeze touches the trees and makes fallen leaves dance. And all in all you walk, stalking the footsteps of feet that haven’t touched these streets in so long. As long as you feel the need for treats…you keep walking.
With a mind so loaded with thoughts you find that you’ve been wandering the roads for a long time…so long that you’ve lost your way…that is, until you find a gate that leads to a graying property, a sea of dead leaves and trees and drudgery and misery, until you just find a grand gothic house…A House of Mystery…
You can’t stop moving, and whether you’re a fool or just in the mood for tricks, you reach the front door…And step inside…
And make a final
fatal
mistake…
Once inside a gale force wails, moving you inside while the doors shut behind you. The walls scream with life and agony, while hands drag you through a room of hags who read threads, and bedded sinners brag about the heads they’ve taken, the souls they’ve turned red, and the cold, cold touch of the dead. And all they whisper is ‘The Door, The Door,”…
And finally you’ve reach this dreaded door, this dreaded taunt you can’t ignore, you bones shakes more than ever before and the more and more you try to get a way…the more it pulls you through…
Through the murky grime of the human soul…
Through the place that burns but feels so cold…
Through the horrid bitterness that humanity shares,
It takes you quick, to a place far and near …
It takes you there …
Through the Doorway to Nightmare…
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:20:52 GMT -5
A man steps out from a room. He wears an almond colored turtleneck under a tan blazer, and black pants to match his black shoes. His red-orange hair is long and wild, with the sides curving into a small point; his beard is an inverted mirror image of his hair. On his face is a clean pair of glasses and a devilish grin that stretches from ear to ear. Behind him comes a seven foot tall green gargoyle holding a tray, and you can swear that the gargoyle is smiling through its three rows of teeth.
“Ah, you’ve arrived! We were expecting you.” His voice is like Vincent Price’s. His eyes hold a gleam of some unknown happiness. He is still grinning so widely. “You’ve strayed off the path, haven’t you? Well you won’t be able to go anywhere anytime soon, I’m sure of that. If you go out in the fog you’ll be wandering forever! But I have the remedy…”
He walks to a drawer and pulls out a large, dusty book. It’s a wonder that it doesn’t fall apart in his hands: you wonder how old it is. He blows the dust off the cover and takes a seat in a chair.
The gargoyle is suddenly by your side, and it scares you. It grabs your arms and drags you, and you close your eyes hoping that it won’t eat you. When you open them again, you are sitting in a chair that has been dragged to be across from the man.
“Don’t be so scared, chum, though I know Gregory is a bit intimidating. Do you like the name Gregory? I named him myself. Gargoyle names should always start with ‘G’, don’t you agree. I’m Cain, by the way.”
You nod. It’s the only thing you know how to do right now.
“Are you up for a story? How about nine? We have plenty of time, trust me. You’ll enjoy this, you will.” He smiles again. A chill runs down your spine. Damn his Vincent Price voice.
“Here collected are nine stories featuring faces that may be familiar or unfamiliar to you...I took this book from Lucien, hopefully he won’t notice…that cretin…anyways, these stories were written by dreamers who do not know that they have been seeing the scenes of real lives…of heroes, villains, and all the things in between…Hope you enjoy…”
You sit back. A chill runs down your spine.
Damn his Vincent Price voice.
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:22:58 GMT -5
“Ah, this is written by one House Of Mystery, a founding member and long contributor to one of those spider web places or such…oh right, thank you, websites I mean…, he was the first human in a few hundred years to find the path to this house and now others can’t help but find their way here…
Anyways, he wrote a book called House of Mystery, bringing together other writers and dreamers like himself, and later conceived another House of Mystery… the very book we are reading right now. This is the first of three of his stories. Enjoy!”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:26:10 GMT -5
Soultaker Whispers in the night. Metal grinding on wood. It ran, ragged through the woods, a demon in form of flesh. She chased it, of course, the stench of blood and brimstone fresh in the air, an easy trail for someone to follow. Foliage was torn, footsteps thick and heavy on the wet muddy floor. It moved like an animal, four limbs all with claws that could tear through steel like paper, fangs that could clean bite of a head within seconds. It was fast too. But with the gash in its mortal form’s hind leg, it was moving slow. In the dull light of the moon above, black ichor sparkled visible up ahead. She was close. Then the trail ended. Strange. She slowed up to a walk, and listened. There was no birds song, no crickets chirping… It was close. She could nearly smell it. Her eyes widened, and she looked up, and the silence was pierced as it dove down from the trees above. Her arm was torn open, and she cried out, but kept her composure, bringing her sword up and preventing its teeth from removing her head from her shoulders. It gnashed and roared, but the sword was jammed in its mouth, and she was able to gain leverage and kick upwards, sending the hell-beast stumbling backwards. “Come on then, you ugly bastard, come on!” It howled at her, and she motioned to her left, and it dove forward, but she shifted her weight to her left and sliced down the blade on its face, cutting deep into its flesh and scraping bone. It swatted at her, and she flew back, cursing herself. She was being too emotional. Pull back. She squatted, and watched as the beast nuzzled its wound with a clawed hand. The wound bled black. It stank of death. Like rotting corpses. It looked her deep in the eye. Those eyes. Like red pits. Its skin was a squalid grey, patches of fur lining it’s joints. Strange. She didn’t blink. It didn’t blink. And then it pounced at her, clawed hands reaching toward her. She rolled back, hit the ground hard, and jammed up her sword. The demon screamed. The physical shell evaporated into nothingness, and the demon’s essence transformed to air, only to be sucked inside the blade that vanquished it. Tatsu Yamashiro lowered her katana. She watched as the blade glistened in the moonlight. Another soul to keep the others company inside the weapon. She wiped the black blood of the steel, and then sheathed the weapon. She could return home now. Until the next demon crossed paths with her… |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:28:25 GMT -5
“Did you enjoy that one? Great. Now here’s another writer, Jay A., better known as Arcalian to some in his lifetime. He was the very first contributor to this very book. Not only will you enjoy this, but you’ll find two people who most wouldn’t expect to see together… two people who you shouldn’t ever have to meet…”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:31:14 GMT -5
The Price is Too High He was the avatar of temptation. The incarnation of the deal-maker. When a soul could be bought, he was the aspect of evil there to make the purchase. His was the name rendered from the number of the beast. He was Neron. At the moment he was most concerned with that foolish Baron Winter, and the inconvenience that was Blue Devil. But he had many concerns throughout the realms, and many ways of gaining an advantage. And there was an opportunity that he felt he could take advantage of. Something that might tip the balance not only in his favor, but in the favor of the Planes of Evil as a whole. There were beings, he knew, that were neither angels nor demons. Beings who were not about power or control, but stability, focus, regulation. Beings neither good nor evil in themselves, but simply aspects of reality. They were sometimes called the Immanent Ones; they referred to themselves as the Endless. There were seven of them, and regardless of time or place they did their duties, in their own way. As he sat on his throne in the fiery darkness, he contemplated the weakness that had developed amongst the Endless, in the past four centuries. One of their number had abandoned his responsibilities, and refused to allow the powers to pass to someone else. There was nothing Neron could do about that....unless one of the Endless gave him permission to do so, as their agent in the matter. And he was fairly confident he knew which one would be amenable to such an offer. He stood from his throne and took his more human aspect; slicked back blonde hair, glowing green eyes, green armor. Not that it would impress or appease the being he wished to see, but protocol was important in situations like this. Even where the youngest of the Endless was concerned. He stepped down from his throne, faced leftwards, and closed his eyes. He took a step forward, and vanished from that realm. |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:33:16 GMT -5
Madness. Obscurity. Impossibility. Lateral thinking. Drunken stupor. Fever dreams.... Neron wandered through the collective subconscious, through a string of mortal minds, searching for the path. Not a way in, no; his potential client would not simply let him barge into her realm, and if he somehow managed to do so, that would only earn him her anger and disfavor. Galling as it was, he needed to request an audience. And while he felt the presence of her will in all these minds, the handprint of her involvement, he did not sense her direct attention, her avatar.
At last, he found her on the streets of Istanbul. A drunken man was shuddering in an alley, eyes closed. To mortal eyes that's all there was, a drunken fool in the throes of affliction. But to Neron's eyes...
She was floating above his head, giggling and laughing, gently dancing above him, her dainty feet dancing on air just above his head. In a very really sense, she was dancing in his mind.
Her hair changed by the second. Now blonde, now redhead, now plaid, now silver, now pinstripe gold-on-blue...it changed and shifted even as Neron watched. It slipped away from her head, leaving her completely bald; then new green and orange strands of hair began to sprout.
Her eyes were mismatched; one green, one blue. At least they did not change. Neron was many things, but one of the things he was was a creature of order and rules, and her chaotic nature disquieted him. Not that he would ever show it, of course.
Her body was that of a young child, though of course she was ageless beyond all reason. Her mind was something of a child's as well, albeit a child who knew many terrible secrets that no young soul should ever know.
She wore a jacket three sizes too big for her; it came down almost to her ankles.
Then she spoke; she was speaking to the mortal, or more accurately to the mortal's mind. Her voice was wavery and changed tone and pitch on each word; it sounded like a piano out of tune. "YeS, tHaT's It......ThInK aBoUt AlL tHe PrEtTy BuTtErFlIes...."
There was more in the same vein. Neron waited patiently; while he would like nothing better than to interrupt her and get down to business, such would not put her into an agreeable frame of mind.
She had noticed him, of course; her senses, while somewhat skewed, were more than powerful enough for that. Eventually, she looked up. "Hi....WhAt Do YoU wAnT, mIsTeR nAsTy?"
"Greetings, Delirium, Lady of Madness. I would speak with you on matters that concern us both."
She cocked her head. "BoTh Of Us? LiKe WhAt?"
"There is something I may be able to do for you. In return you might assist me."
She eyed him suspiciously. "I kNoW hOw DeAlS wItH yOu WoRk. AnD bEsIdEs, YoU cAn'T hAvE mY uH........sOuL-tHiNgY."
This was not a refusal; she was telling him she could not give him her essence in the way a mortal could give up a soul. He bowed slightly. "I know this. But there are other things you might give me."
She looked thoughtful....then started to spin around and make silly birdsong noises. Neron rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. He was patient, and Immortal. But Delirium could try the patience of anyone.
Then she began to hum. But it was a thoughtful hum, rather than just abstract noise. Finally, Delirium said, "If WeRe gOnNa TaLk AbOuT tHiS, i WoUlD rAtHeR dO iT iN mY rEaLm."
"Certainly," Neron agreed. It would, he knew, put her more at ease. Plus, by agreeing to the bargain in her own place of power, it would be more binding on her.
She gestured, and they vanished in a swirl of light.
The drunkard she had been working on blinked in puzzlement and looked around, fully awake and sober.
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:34:51 GMT -5
Delirium's realm.
It was not one of the Lower Planes, but Neron felt it could serve as such for those in the grip of her power. Colors swirled everywhere, some of them not part of the normal spectrum as humans perceived it; random objects floated by, and from time to time you could see the hallucinations and madness of humans and other beings throughout the cosmos.
Delirium sat down by the broken sundial in the center of her realm and blinked curiously at him. "So. uM. WhaT dO yOu WaNt FrOm Me?"
"As you know I make deals. The deal I would offer you....is to bring your brother back."
Delirium froze. Literally. Her hair stopped moving and changing. All the colors stopped moving everywhere in her realm. And across the cosmos, a thousand million people in the throes of madness, or drunkenness, or hallucination or fever dreams or shock, froze with her.
The pause seemed to last an eternity. Finally, in a small voice, Delirium said, "YoU CaN't MaKe HiM cOmE bAcK."
"If you agree to the deal, I can. If one member of the Endless contracts with me, that grants me the power to influence another." As well as the power to do a number of other things, of course. But he did not say that to her. She was crazy, but no fool.
"Um.....WhAt Do YoU WaNt?"
He grinned toothily. There was no need to lie; why lie when a lie would not be believed, and the truth would serve just as well? "As you pointed out earlier, you cannot give me your essence. But it would serve my needs nicely to have....influence....over the Endless."
All of Delirium's hair fell out and both her eyes turned ice blue. She stared at him for a long time. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.
And Neron, for all his power and dark history, cringed back. He could not control that movement. And perhaps it was just as well. Vulnerability might serve better than arrogance for his needs.
Finally, she said, "WoUlDn'T dEsIrE bE, uM, bEtTeR fOr YoU?"
Neron's mouth twisted. "Desire's actions often serve our needs nicely. But it has consistently refused to make pact with us. It values it's independence."
Delirium made a thoughtful humming noise again, but this time there was an angry buzzing, like that of a hornet, mixed in.
Finally she said, "LeT mE tHiNk AbOuT iT fOr A sEcOnD."
"Of course," he agreed, bowing.
There was a pause, and around him Delirium's realm swam back into multicolored life again. Her hair grew out once more, but this time it was mostly black, with the occasional thread of purple. Neron had a sinking feeling that this would not turn out well.
Delirium wrapped her hands around her knees, and rocked back and forth, humming thoughtfully.
Neron waited. Time passed. Not much of it, but more than he was comfortable with. An hour? A day? It was hard to keep track of time in her realm.
Finally, she stood up and stared at him. Her eyes were mismatched again, but her expression was intense.
He stood very still, looking back.
Her answer was....
"NO."
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:36:37 GMT -5
As she said the word her realm turned to ice and suddenly her face filled his vision. All her madness and bitterness were there for his immortal mind to perceive in that moment, and he recoiled.
He turned to flee, to look away from that terrible face. As he turned, she forcibly expelled him from her realm, and invoked her power upon him.
As Neron was sent tumbling into the cosmos, he was forced to relive his Fall from Grace. Of being outcast with the Morningstar and all the others from the Silver City, so long ago, before time as mortals understood the concept began.
He screamed. He thrashed. He wailed. He howled, lost in his own madness.
Down he fell, down, down down.
Neron was out of his mind for a period of more than a month and a half. When he finally came to, he was back in his own lower plane, face down before his own throne. He had lost his human form and his true nature was revealed in terrible shape.
He heard lesser demons laughing at him.
He stood up, and the laughing stopped.
But he was not satisfied. He thrashed out his limbs in anger and fury, and a shockwave of his infernal power slashed through the realm, and the lesser powers wailed in pain and agony instead.
"Yes, very impressive," a voice said behind him.
Neron froze; he knew that voice.
"I would advise against plotting revenge against my sister for this," the voice said. It was female, and the tone was cheerful, conversational. But he understood the threat all the same. "Just a friendly reminder; your office is not written in stone, even amongst your peers. Nor does it have to be filled by you."
He did not look around. He knew what he would see. He had no wish to see the second oldest member of the Endless at that moment.
"We take care of our own. The Endless are of one voice on this matter, even Desire. Be warned."
He said nothing for a long time, but the presence behind him remained. Finally, he said, "I understand."
"Good," Death said cheerfully, and then she was gone.
Neron slowly walked to his chair, resumed his human form, and sat down. He tried not to let his body shake. He tried not to show fear or weakness. He knew two things; first, that his position of power would be consistently challenged for some time after this. Second—and this was much more galling—the only reason he had not been destroyed and his power usurped while he lay there was because Delirium had willed it so.
He sat silently for some time.
Perhaps for the time being he should focus his attention on Baron Winter and Blue Devil.
For the time being.
Hell was unusually quiet for a time after that.
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:38:51 GMT -5
“Interesting, was it not? Now we have a dreamer named Masoud House…a man who travels as a Crow in his dreams…wonder how Matthew takes to him…Anyways, here is his tale of three immortals of another kind…”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:40:15 GMT -5
Endless Lives A man stepped out of a busy Opal City street and started down an avenue full of townhouses and shops. Even though it was only a few minutes to midnight the city was very much alive: jubilant jazz music played all over, Halloween Parties graced private clubs and public sidewalks, and lanterns and decorations were strung up all over the town. Walking quickly past a group of night owls, he scanned the ground in front of him until he found a small black circle that had been marked onto the sidewalk. “Okay… how does this go?” he thought aloud, taking out a compass and placing both feet onto the circle. “Moonlight, trace my steps!” A white light began to glow under the soles of his feet, though only he could see it. He began to move: each step he took left a trace of silver light in his wake. “One step north; five steps west; twenty feet southwest…” Passersby laughed as they went along, believing the man to be just another Halloween drunk: he ignored them, following his directions to a tee. “Two steps northwest; five feet east; three steps northeast; six steps north…and now to cross the street…” He turned southwest, jogging across the street and narrowly outrunning a speeding Volkswagen Beetle. Continuing straight led him right into a small alleyway. “And ten feet in, turn right; knock on the thirteenth brick up from the ground…” he said as he crouched a little, using his fingers to count each brick one by one until he found his target. He knocked: the light that had followed his steps had drawn a sigil that led to where he was, and now it locked, flashing upwards and running along the wall to the brick. “And finally…” He drew in a large breath, and with his best deep voice said “ FE-FI-FO-FUM, I SMELL THE BLOOD OF AN ENGLISHMAN!” The wall began to rumble as dust blew out. Bricks shifted until a black void the size of a doorway opened up before him. The man looked out of both ends of the alley, and finding himself alone, stepped through. All of a sudden he stepped out into a large living room. It was full of items that dated from the 19th century and on, and even a few items from before that. All of the furniture and decorations were black: the walls, the floor, and the ceiling were also black. The only exceptions were three ivory-handle wine glasses that were sitting on a black wooden coffee table. Next to the coffee table were three black seats, two of which were occupied. The first was occupied by a serious looking man dressed in an olive turtleneck and matching slacks. His hair was a dark auburn color, with a streak of white going up the middle. His name was Jason Blood. The other was dressed all in black, much like his abode: he wore a three-piece suit, shades, and had a black top hot resting on the top of the cane in his hands. He was Richard Swift, though he was better known in this century as The Shade. |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:41:55 GMT -5
The two rose to greet him with strong handshakes. “My, my, my…if isn’t Mr. Gadling himself,” Shade said. “Hope you enjoyed the password I sent you.”
“Nevermind him, Blood said. “He’s got a warped sense of humor. He’s just mad that there tends to be more English immortals than American ones…”
“Oh ha-ha,” Shade said sarcastically.
“Anyways, you’re late as usual, Hob.” Blood said with a smirk.
Hob smiled. He ran a hand through his thick, shaggy, chocolate-colored hair. “Remember that I haven’t been ‘Hob Gadling’ since around the 17th century. I’m Robbin Gallows now,” he said with a wink and a smirk.
“With your beard growing thick again I think you’re as close to being ‘Hob’ than ever before,” Blood replied.
“And if you ever grow your hair out to your shoulders I can call you Iason again,” Hob remarked. Blood snorted. Hob brought a hand up and rubbed his chin. “Though I suppose it’s been a while since I shaved it… I remember a time when letting your beard grow was a sign of manhood and ruggedness. The men of this decade seems to like shaving off their hair with their ‘Gilettes’ and their ‘Norelcos’.”
The three took a seat. “I’m glad you made it. We haven’t touched the wine yet: I was beginning to think we’d watch the wine reach its centennial before you arrived here,” The Shade said as Blood began to open the wine. “Haven’t you got anything older, Jason?” Shade asked turning to Blood. “I feel like we’ll be arrested for this less-than-a-hundred year old jailbait.”
Hob and Blood laughed; Blood popped the cork of the wine bottle. “It’s tough to hold onto anything for a long time when you’re occasionally the target of both heroes and villains…”
The Shade nodded solemnly with a feint smile. “I suppose I can relate.”
“Why don’t you put them into storage like I told you?” Hob asked. “Or find one of the millions of magic types like yourselves who can put them into some pocket dimension or some such.”
Blood shrugged. “I suppose I enjoy having my possessions nearby even if they may only be temporary. I’ve grown used to having things for a short amount of time. What’s priceless now may not be later, and what’s not priceless now may be so later. Besides,” he said, sipping his wine. “If the owner of my storage became incapacitated, I’d have no way of conjuring my possessions.”
“I guess I understand that,” Hob replied. “I’m probably going to be connected to you hocus-pocus types for the rest of my long life but I’ll never get what you can do. I barely could get that sigil to the gateway spell. Why couldn’t we do something like that Potter kid and step through an invisible platform?”
“You read those books?” The Shade said with a laugh. “Why I think our Gadling’s gone mad!”
“Sue me. I didn’t know how to read well until the end of the 15th century. I prefer the simply stuff,” he said with a smile. “I actually only saw the movies though…I find that after meeting Shakespeare, hell even before he was ‘Shakespeare’, I prefer the classics. But I always try to support the creativity and imagination that is born out of England.”
“How supportive you are,” The Shade quipped. “If only the Queen knew of your love for your homeland.”
“The creativity of my homeland is what inspired me to think outside the box—it’s what made me immortal like you two blokes.”
“Oh that’s right…” Blood said. “What’s the story again? You posed a philosophical statement which awakened your immortality: that people only die because they accept that inevitability as their only outcome in life. You challenged that train of thought and in doing so ended your mortality and perpetuated your youth.”
Hob chuckled. “For a long time I thought was all it was. But I later realized, after about two hundred or more years, that I was just in the right place at the right time.”
The Shade grinned. “I always forget that part.”
“What’s that mean?” Hob said.
“That I tend to always forget how the so-called Endless granted you immortality.”
Hob frowned. “How many times do I have to tell you they exist? I’m not talented enough to create all of this. If it wasn’t for Dream and his sister, Death, I’d—“
“Ha! Death is a woman no less! Under the reaper’s clothes is stockings and a garter belt!”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:43:21 GMT -5
Hob ignored the Shade. “If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. I was talking aloud in a bar at the same time that the two had decided to walk our world, and apparently they were talking about life and death and mortality. They happened to walk by me and overhear my philosophy, and Dream, who I’d later call my friend, talked Death into granting me immortality on my own terms. I may only lose my longevity when—“
“When you are tired of living and finally wish to give in and die. Yes, we’ve heard this tale before,” Shade said. “Why do we immortals love to retell our tales so often? Is it so we won’ forget it? Anyway, it feels like a nice little fabricated fairy tale. ‘A man faces immortality, and even with the horrors of a long life, he decides to embrace the changes, the ups and downs of life, and go on stronger and wiser’. No offense, Hob, but I think you may indeed have a future in the writing industry. J.K. Rowling, move over!”
“So you have read the books,” Hob quipped. Shade sent him a dirty look.
Jason shook his head. “When are you going to believe that the Endless are real? I have studied them for quite some time: especially a certain book on Earth that scholars believe is tied to the Book that is chained to the arm of Destiny, the eldest of the Endless. Anything is possible: we live in a world of uncertainly, after all. We live in a world, well a universe, where Gods walk the earth, divine beings speak to mortals, and Biblical beings take action on the mortal plane.”
“Because, Jason,” Shade started, “I can believe in so-called deities, divinity, and angels and demons: half of them tend to be immortals like ourselves who have too much power to remember their once-mortal beginnings. But” he said, taking a little more of his wine, “seven anthropomorphic beings that are the metaphysical entities of human words that all happen to start with ‘D’? Oh—and their tagline! ‘Even the youngest of the Endless is older than the eldest being’! Seems a bit imaginary to me.”
“Is it as far-fetched as Olympian Gods who represent concepts like love and war? Yet, through Wonder Woman, we see that they do indeed exist.” Blood said matter-of-factly.
“I just find it hard to believe that these Endless are so revered and yet so little is known about them. It seems all mystique; no substance. It’s all too nicely crafted without any proof. Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium: so alliterative, don’t you think? Something’s wrong.”
Blood shook his head. “Hob, don’t let him get to you. Don’t forget he’s young; he’s barely making two hundred. He’ll come around in another century or so when he’s seen some more of the world.”
“Whatever,” Shade said, placing his glass down. “That’s another thing,” he said leaning towards the other two men, “almost all immortals, besides the ones with the inflated egos, admit that while they have an indefinite lifespan they are still susceptible to death that results from some kind of particular harm, though perhaps not as easily harmed as others. Sure you have some like the supposed ‘Resurrection Man’ who cannot be killed—some kind of alien thing—but for the most part we all known we may die. Hell, even Dorian Gray was almost impervious—that is until he saw his portrait. But then you have these ‘Endless’ characters who apparently, like their name suggests, have no end!”
Hob nodded. “Yes and no. So far as I know, I have picked up from my conversations with Dream that they can be killed—though with an extreme, cosmic plan. From what I’ve gathered, Despair, one of the younger of the Endless siblings, has already died…”
“But then how is there one now? How are they ‘endless’ if they can be killed, no matter how difficult it may be?” Blood asked.
“Exactly!” Shade added.
“I believe she was replaced…like…cosmically replaced by the universe with another being by some kind of extreme predestined design, or fate, or mere coincidence. But the way it happens is amazing: somehow they transfer their essence to the next person. That person will know their duties upon ascendance, and retain some of those memories, though their personality may be slightly different. “
“And what of Destruction?” Blood asked. “You mentioned him in the past. You mentioned how he left his post and his duty: why didn’t the universe replace him?”
“I’m glad you’re beginning to see the holes in the story,” the Shade said.
“Wait—“ Hob said, putting up a hand in protest, “Destruction is another matter. He did indeed leave his post: he could neither slow nor halt the process of destruction, and it began to eat at him. The process of destruction is inevitable: it is a fundamental metaphysical force of perpetual life and death. It is because of this force that everything deconstructs back into a form of energy, and through this, everything from alchemy to reincarnation is possible. But he didn’t have the heart to continue the regulation of these events. He abandoned his realm and his role.
“I’m not quite sure why he wasn’t replaced; Dream and his other siblings don’t like to dwell on the status of their brother for too long without getting distressed or agitated. “
“Amazing that such ‘high’ beings can be so… human,” Shade murmured to no one in particular.
“One more question,” Blood said. The Shade made a long sigh as he turned away to stare at a Picasso painting he had stolen. Blood ignored him.
“What of Delight? Shade named seven Endless members, but I remember hearing a rumor of an Endless called Delight. She was supposed to be the youngest of them all.”
Hob shrugged. “Wow…I’m not really sure…so far as I know the youngest is Delirium. Unless…”
The Shade made a large sigh again. “I tire of this talk.”
“And I tire of your childishness,” Blood said with a grimace overtaking his face. “It seems to me that you are ignoring the possibilities because of simple stubbornness or simple jealousy.”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:44:23 GMT -5
“Jealousy? I’m above jealousy, Jason. Skeptical is all I am.”
“We’ve been around, Richard. Things begin to make less sense the older you get. Trust me, I wouldn’t have believed half of the things I know now when I was less than a hundred—“
“Please. This ‘youthful’ nonsense is really beginning to bug me. I may be younger than you both, but I am well learned enough to understand my surroundings.” His lips tightened. “Do not treat me like a child,” he hissed.
“Don’t forget the number one weakness for immortals are the seven deadly sins, Richard.” Blood said. “I suggest you appreciate our wisdom; we gained it at the cost of foolish mistakes.”
“Please, Jason.”
“Pride is a hard thing to overcome: it has been the downfall of many an immortal,” Blood continued. “Who knows how great an angel Lucifer Morningstar would have been if he hadn’t fallen due to his pride? Or how successful a world leader Vandal Savage would have been to the ancient world if he had learned from his mistakes? Or—“
“Don’t feed me this holier-than-thou garbage!” The Shade said scowling.
“Take it easy Swift,” Hob said. “He’s just telling you things you need to hear.”
“That I need to hear? That I need to hear? Don’t think that I’ve forgotten your pasts! I’m not the only ‘once-villain’ here. Or have you conveniently forgotten your own sins as the centuries pass by?”
Blood and Hob began to speak in protest, but Shade cut them off. “Don’t pretend to forget what circumstances bind your alter-ego to your soul,” he said to Blood. “And don’t think I don’t know about your importance in the slave trade,” Shade said to Hob. “Just because you’re dating a Trinidadian woman now doesn’t absolve the things you did to her Caribbean ancestors!”
“How dare you!” Blood said. Hob jumped out of his seat, staring down at the Shade.
“And what makes you so grand? To think that we’re being hassled by a murderer and thief! Just because you’ve grown a conscience doesn’t make you a hero!” Hob added.
“At least my crimes generally had a greater purpose!” Shade said, coming to the edge of his seat and staring straight up at Hob. “What was either of yours? Wars that have been twisted by grand legends of mystic quests and swords-in-the-stone and an enslavement that has affected the well-being of a race for centuries on!”
The three men all turned away, staring at anything that would allow them to avoid each other’s eyes. Anger burned in them as tension filled the air. Hob sat and began to play with his empty wine glass; the Shade, sat back, crossed his legs, putting a hand on his chin and the other on his arm rest; Blood sat back and grimaced, looking at his shoes.
After a few moments of silence, Blood sipped his wine bitterly and placed his empty glass onto the coffee table. He cleared his throat and glanced from Hob to the Shade. “And here’s the biggest problem of immortality,” he said somberly, “a longer life gives the opportunity for more mistakes and memories that one would wish to forget forevermore.” He looked down at his empty glass again. “And perhaps being reminded of these wrongs is exactly what keeps us following a more righteous past so that we will never repeat those dreaded mistakes again.”
Silence.
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:45:11 GMT -5
After another moment, the Shade spoke. “Must you always be so…poetic?”
Blood coughed out a laugh. “I could kill you with a poem.”
The Shade smirked. “I could kill you by turning the light switch off.”
Hob grinned. “I could kill you both when you go to sleep…”
“By calling to you precious Dream of the Endless?” The Shade asked.
“No,” Hob said. “But I sure as hell have a knife and it cuts fairly damn well.”
The three looked at each other darkly for a few seconds, and then suddenly began to grin and laugh uncontrollably. The three rose and came together in a huddle. “I’m sorry,” The Shade said.
“Me too,” Hob added.
“I, too,” Blood added.
The three separated. “I guess I should go…I have research to attend to…things have been a bit busy for me lately…” Blood said.
“And I have some business of my own to attend to…and Marisol would kill me if I didn’t come home tonight…” Hob said.
“And..uh…I suppose I should meet up with the Knights…”
The two guests gathered their belongings and made their way to the door. The Shade opened it, revealing a black void that would lead the two back to the places where they had entered the gateway from. “Same time next year?”
“As always,” Blood said.
“This time I’ll pick the place,” Hob said. The Shade nodded.
They all looked at each other once more. “One more toast,” Hob said, coming back into the room. He shuffled past the two, pouring wine into their glasses and brining them to the other two. He raised his own up. “Here’s to learning from our mistakes,” he said.
“And to becoming better than we were yesterday,” The Shade added.
The two looked to Blood, who took a moment to think, and then smiled.
“And here’s to living endless lives.”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:46:50 GMT -5
“Pleasant I suppose…And on we go! Bored yet? Better not be. Gregory gets a little confused when he sees sleeping people…to him, there is no difference between sleeping prey and dead prey!
Just kidding! Well our next author is another Jay, Jay Zirron. He has spent much of his time researching a certain Atlantean Sorcerer and now he has been gifted with a vision of a teenaged boy named Freddie who has been given a choice…”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:47:52 GMT -5
“You Get What You Wish For”
Freddie was looking at his baseball cards and realized that one of his cards was stuck in an old looking book. He pulled the book out and didn’t recognize the language that was written so he turned the page and saw a picture of a wizard. He never really recognized the book before so he decided to go ahead close it when it started to glow and pulled away from him and floated on the air. Freddie opened his eyes in amazement as he saw the wizard look at him from the page that he had opened to and he began to speak soft tones that he couldn’t hear but finally the wizard stepped out from the pages and into his bedroom. “You’ve awakened me from centuries of slumber.” Freddie shook his head. “I didn’t know I could do that, I am so sorry!” Freddie was just a teenager so he could be excitable. “No, I don’t wish for you to be sorry, I am gratified to be freed of the Book of Magic.” He clasped his hands together and bowed before him. “I am Arion, I was once the protector of Atlantis, how may I serve you?” “Serve…” Freddie stuttered. “Serve me?” “Yes you have opened the Book of Magic and summoned to this corporeal realm.” Arion nodded. His cape on his back was whisking the floor as he turned around and looked out the window of the apartment he stayed in. “Where are we?” “Gotham City… holy Moses.” Freddie said. “My friends are never going to believe this!” Arion raised an eyebrow and turned around and chastised him. “No one can know that I am here or you will lose your rights over the Book of Magic!” “But you just said you would serve me!!” Freddie exclaimed back. “Yes, I did, but you’re the only one I can serve. I cannot have more than one master… it is forbidden.” “Oh.” Freddie sighed. “I get it. This is a trick right?” “No tricks.” Arion looked at him. “What is it you wish for?” “Well, I want to be something special for Halloween.” Freddie put a finger to his lower lip as he thought about it. “I want to be a superhero!” Arion raised an eyebrow at this thought. “Halloween…” He openly pondered the boy’s wish. “What sort of superhero do you wish to be?” “I don’t know.. maybe Batman! Or Superman!” “I am afraid that I do not know who they are… in fact you’ve not told me your name.” Arion responded to him. “Oh I am Freddie!” He stood up. “I want to be able to fly around and defeat great monsters!” He almost screamed his response to Arion. “Fly around and defeat monsters, eh?” Arion raised an eyebrow again and then he raised both hands and they both glowed as he shot some powerful bolts of magic at the young boy. He grew in stature and muscular build. He contained a sword by his side and wore chainmail armour with the sign of the Knights Templar on his chest. “Sir Freddie of Gotham, I anoint you the protector of the gates Purgatory… from Hence forth you will call on my name and be transformed into the Knight Avenger.” “Far out!” Freddie in his grown up voice screamed. “I get to fight monsters!” “Your charge is not an easy one, young warrior, but you must be able to defend the innocent and take charge when there is no one else.” Arion nodded, “But be warned if you stray from this duty then you lose the power that I have granted you and all your wishes will flee.” “Oh I won’t, I promise you that!” Freddie yelled as he looked at the wizard, “But how do I get back to my normal self?” He saw the wizard retreat back into the pages of the Book of Magic. “You can never go back unless you forsake your duties..” Arion turned to him as he saw the Knight Avenger slump his shoulders a bit. “A superhero is supposed to have a secret identity!! It’s in all the comic books!” Arion shook his head as he sighed. “So you wish to be your normal self again?” “Yes, but I want to be the super hero too!” Freddie exclaimed. “One or neither.” Arion raised his hands and then transformed the Knight Avenger back into the young boy as he descended back into the pages of the Book of Magic. “Golly!” Freddie yelled as he stamped his feet. “Some wizard you are!” In his haste he picked up the book and opened his window where his apartment was in projects in Gotham City. He threw the book out the window and as the book fell out the window a bright purple light blew open the book’s covers as a mighty purple dragon appeared in its place. The dragon spoke to the boy. “You’ve chosen to forsake your treat… so you will no longer be able to command the Book of Magic.” The dragon flew away as people were gathered around below and they looked up at Freddie’s window. No one could believe what he or she had just seen. Freddie saw a talisman seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Freddie picked up the talisman which contained a pentagram with dark circles of a sardonic nature. “What the blazes is this…” Suddenly a flash of red light appeared as what appeared to be a Devil with a pitchfork appeared before the boy. “You chose not to accept the gift of the Book of Magic, but….” The Devil figure laughed for a moment. “I have a deal for you…. For your soul.” He broke out into laughter as the Devil came closer to the boy and made them both disappear into nothing but smoke filled in the room. There was suddenly a knock on Freddie’s door. “It’s time for dinner, Freddie!!” The voice of his mom yelled. She opened the door and saw a skull with a red cloak that was over the rest of the form. The skull talked to her. “Hi mom!” Freddie’s voice spoke from the skull. His mom’s eyes went into the back of her head as she fainted. Freddie shrugged as he walked past his corporeal mother and into the darkness. His pact with the devil made… and every Hallow’s Eve he would come back and collect the soul of the most wretched and guide them to Hell. As he walked away… a soul gripping laughter reverberated across the city. The darkness of Halloween spread… as Freddie’s dark mission had begun… |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:50:49 GMT -5
“Now there’s an ending we can all enjoy. Now we’ve returned to the crow-dreamer, yes we have. Here’s a tale that should get your heart beating…”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:52:07 GMT -5
Hunted She was running. Running fast and running hard. Running to live. Running to see the next day. They were behind her. Chasing her in a Romanian field in the dark of the night, far away from anyone who could ever help her. Far away from any escape. If they had their way tonight she would die in this field like meat. The pack of them shouted taunts at her; they screamed obscenities as they glided along the air and came close enough to breathe on her neck. She wondered why they hadn’t tried to bite her yet. But she didn’t care. As long as she made it out alive and pure. She leapt over fences with ease. She sprinted down football-sized fields. She moved and twisted and spun through trees. She ran through puddles and leapt over holes. She ran to live. She came upon a house; a farmhouse in the distance. It was black and gray and just plain old; but it was her only chance to see one more day. She had a second wind as she put all of her will into running for the house. She felt like Bambi: running to escape a bloody end. The men behind her were like cheetahs in the wild: chasing her on and on and on, putting off the kill to tire her out and make her easier to catch. To play with their food. But they were worse than feline predators: they were vampires. They not only wanted her for food, but they lusted after her blood, her body, and her sanity. They wildly laughed at her attempt to protect herself through the weak shelter before them. They belittled her struggle to get away, trying to break down her will. But she continued on, fast and stronger than before. Finally she reached the house. She slid inside, falling into a bail of hay. She stumbled trying to get up, her boots suddenly too large and cumbersome. She got to the doors and slammed them shut. She was safe now.
BAMM-BAMM!Their fists slammed against the doors: the doors were stronger than they seemed. She backed up further into the farmhouse, coming into the center. Fists banged against all the walls of the house. They got louder as the vampires slammed harder and harder, reaching a crescendo of ear-splitting pounds that caused her to cover her ears. And then it was all over. Silence. Endless silence that was almost as bad as the banging itself because it begged the question: had they left or were they trying to give her false security? She decided it was best to stayed within. Suddenly a cool wind blew. The breeze swept over her as she wrapped her arms around herself. She looked above her. There were holes in the roof. A mist poured into the farmhouse through the cracks in the wall and the ceiling; she knew that it could only be the vampires. She backed herself into a corner as the mist fell to the floor and started to substantiate into a group of five men: each with their own style of clothing and punk hair styles. The leader of the bunch stepped up, dressed in a mixture of dark, warm colors, heavily contrasting her black clothes. “So ve hav cot the leetle minx,” he said with a grin. “Yuu hav evaded us for such a long time. I thought ve vould miss dee-ner tonight, but it looks like I’m vrong…” He and the others came closer to her as she continued to inch back as much as possible, gaining as much space as she could until she had no more. She fell backwards, her hands behind her, as she pushed herself into the corner as much as it would let her. The leader came within inches of her face; a long smile stretched across his face. He took a long sniff of her, his eyes closed, taking in her perfume and the smell of blood under her skin. He licked his lips and stared into her eyes. “So my love…any last vords before ve make you our entrée?” She scowled. All of a sudden she moved, quicker than even they could see: in a split-second there was a shotgun under the chin of the leader. His eyes opened wide as she smiled a grim smile. “ Bon appetite.” |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:52:57 GMT -5
She fired the gun. Blood and brain matter sprayed out onto the vampires behind her victim. She kicked the leader off of her, sending the body in the direction of one of the lackeys. He stumbled to catch the body, and as he did, another shot fired from her gun and took his head as well.
She turned the gun to the others and began to fire, but it was too late: they turned to mist and tried to glide towards her. She punched the wall behind her. The entire corner shook and then quickly began to rotate as gas exploded out of the walls. Her platform came outside into the cold night, separating her from the chaos inside the house.
She put on a gas mask and banged the wall of the platform she had just come off of. In moments the vampires followed it out to come right where she wanted them.
They remained in mist form, but they were moving much slower and were in clear pain. One turned back to his physical form but began to choke hysterically. “Vh—vhat you do to us?”
She grunted. “Wondering why you’re moving so slow and why you can’t breathe so well?” she said with a slightly eastern European accent. “That’s Radon and Xenon in the air: two of the heaviest noble gases on the periodic table of elements. Radon particularly is very dangerous: it’s causes lung cancer in humans and damages the insides pretty bad. It may not kill you since you may not need air to live—being that you’re dead—but it will tear you up a bit from the inside.”
“Y-y-you bu-bitch!”
The vampire in physical form fell to the ground grasping at his throat. The other two began to run off. She walked to the farmhouse and pressed a series of codes into a hidden control panel.
Immediately the outer walls of the old house shifted, revealing something mechanical and advanced within. In a minute an entire panel of generators had appeared from within the old reinforced walls. The vampires had made a good amount of distance: but they wouldn’t escape this.
The light came out full force: it missed the grounded vampire but caught the fleeing duo in its magnificent solar spotlight. They screamed in agony as they burned to ashes.
She turned off the generators. She walked over to the vampire on the ground, looking down at him as he choked and coughed up blood. Blood that wasn’t even his. The essence of another. The life waters of their body. She scowled with an extreme hatred in her eyes. He looked up at her with fear in his.
“Wha—who are you?”
“You want to know who I am? I suppose I have you at a disadvantage. I already know who you are,” she said, kneeling so that her gas mask was within inches of his face. “You are the scum of the dark side. You are predators of the weak. You are the killers of innocents and the rapists of purity. You want to know who I am?”
She stood, pacing around his body as he squirmed and convulsed below her. “You want to know who I am? I am a little girl who watched her family picked off by you parasites. I’m a young woman who grew up in fear as your kind preached its superiority in my homeland. I’m a woman who was chosen to be a plaything for your masters. But not anymore,” she said, stopping in front of him.
“I’m the descendent of a long line of hunters: you may call me Vanessa Van Helsing. And tonight, I am your death.”
She pulled out a gun: a customized semi-automatic pistol that had various things added onto it. “No—“ he said, coughing up blood, “please, no!”
She pointed the gun down at her foe, her victim, and tore off her gas mask. “There’s a change coming; a storm. A storm that will tear your precious society to pieces. And I will be at the eye of that storm, at its heart, destroying everything that makes you safe and superior. I will bring the strength back to the people. I will become your bogeyman.”
“No—please no—“
A shot fired in the dark of the night. Then another. Then another, and another, and another, until her rage was gone. Five shots to the head, forming the sign of the cross.
She walked away. A tune went off: it was her cell phone.
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:54:18 GMT -5
“Hello?”
“Good going Helsing.”
“My work is done…for tonight.”
“Why didn’t you off them a long time ago with the generators? When they were outside the house together?”
“…”
“You could’ve been bitten.”
“It wouldn’t matter. As long as they were killed. You know I will continue until each of those bastards are killed by my bullets or my blades.”
The voice was silent on the other end for a brief moment. Then she heard a sigh and a chuckle. “Fine. What next Vampire Hunter Vee?”
Vanessa shook her head. “I need a cigarette.”
“Like hell you do. Where to next?”
She paused for a moment. She looked at the body behind her, and then to the sky above her. An image drifted in her mind of her grandfather. She thought of the millions of vampires in the world, and where most of them had congregated to. “I know exactly where we’re going,” she said with a firm resolve.
“Where to?”
“America…”
To be continued…
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:55:29 GMT -5
"Oh the killing! I loved those parts! On to the next...
Here we have another HoM classic, one based on a troubled, troubled man..."
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:57:01 GMT -5
Doctor Occult in In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (Doctor Occult #2.5)
“You’re mine.” He turned over in his bed, thoughts and dreams flittering through his mind. He thought of his wife, his friends, his old adventures and the woes and troubles that his life had become. He thought about the Shade, about Xanadu, the vampires that taunted him and the lives he struggled to save. He was wasting his time. He awakened with a start. He always struggled to sleep nowadays. An hour of restless slumber interrupted by dreams and nightmares. Mostly nightmares these days. He didn’t know why he bothered sleeping anymore. It just tired him out. “Hrm,” he grumbled, looking at his hand. Strange. Nowadays his hands were worn. Pale. Old. But his flesh was full and red, his finger nails well kept. His fingers weren’t shaking. He turned over his hands and examined his palms. Weird. His scars were no longer there. He looked around the room. “Huh?” It wasn’t his small box room in the House of Mystery, but a lavish chamber, familiar some what to the darker corners of his memories. “This isn’t…” “Richard?” He looked over to the other side of the bed, and his eyes opened wide. “Can’t sleep?” He stumbled out of the bed, taking the crimson, silken sheets with him. He scrambled back, feet pushing him across the floor in a panic. He gasped, his breathing quick and shallow as his eyes processed the woman in front of him. “Nuh. Nuh. Not. Nuh. Nuh. Not possible. Possible,” he muttered, trying to push his way through the wall, but finding it impossible to escape this vision in front of him. “What’s wrong honey?” inquired Rose Psychic, as she stepped out of the bed and approached her husband slowly, her gown drifting behind her in the wind whistling through the open window. “What’s wrong?” “Yuh. Yuh. No. Can’t. Can’t. Ah.” He pressed his face against the wall, tears streaming down his face. His finger scratched against the wallpaper, plaster and paint arching beneath his nails. He sobbed. “You’re dead. Dead. Died. God. Oh God. Don’t do this. Don’t please don’t do this to me.” She took his head and began to stroke his thick black hair, whispering into his ear. “You’re here, Richard. I’m alive. It was a dream. A nightmare. We’re together.” “Ruh Rose,” he turned to her, and rested his forehead against hers, his hands stroking her cheeks frantically. “Here. Real. Oh. Oh God.” He kissed her roughly, and she pushed him back, confused. “Oh, honey, I feel it. I feel the sadness inside you. It was a bad one, wasn’t it? A nightmare,” she kissed him back and pushed him to the ground before climbing on top of him, pushing her hands against his chest. “I’m here. You can feel me in here.” She rested her hand above his heart. “In your chest. Our heartbeats as one.” He wiped the tears from his eyes, and pulled her down toward him. “You’re alive.” |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 14:58:17 GMT -5
“CC says hello, by the way,” said Richard Occult, as he poured himself a coffee, black.
“You saw CC? How is he?”
“As good as could be expected. He was the one who called me up to sort out that succubus infestation in Vegas. For a guy blessed with the Wisdom of Solomon, his knowledge of demon lore is sorely lacking.”
“Wouldn’t he be a prize catch for that kind of creature?”
He started toward his seat at the table, and then turned back to her. “Out of all of us, he is the purest. A pure soul. Damn, what a catch he’d be, ha!” He sat down.
“Fried or scrambled?”
“Excuse me?” He picked up his paper, but before opening the pages, looked at his wife, standing by the pantry.
He looked up. “Fried.”
“I knew you’d say that. Don’t know why I ask.”
“Because, my love, you care,” he replied with a wink.
He sipped his coffee. She turned to him from the stove, and smiled. “How do you feel?”
He thought about the question, and then nodded slowly. “Better.”
Silence fell on the room. Fat popped and crackled in the frying pain. “Oh, that reminds me! When you were taking care of that mess in Vegas, Zatara called and said that he was going to be over later with his daughter,” reminded Rose, as she placed fried eggs and bacon on two plates. “he wants to talk to you about… A house?”
He looked up from his coffee. “Hrm?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” she replied as she cut her egg in half, and watched as the yolk ran over her bacon. The kitchen fell silent as she took a bite from her food. “What was the dream?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he replied, as he took another sip from his coffee. “It was a dream. Doesn’t matter.”
Rose sighed heavily. “Don’t pull that on me Richard. You were a mess last night. You’ve not been like that for months.”
“Sorry.” He looked at her for a moment, then glanced down at his food. “You were dead. I made a mistake and you were torn away from me spiritually and physically, taken to a place I couldn’t reach you. I had a monster put inside me. And I kept failing. Failing at everything. I can’t deal with that.”
“You don’t have to. I’m here.” She climbed out of her seat and walked over to the other side of the table, and then crouched down beside him, and took his hand. “All that? A lie. That’s not you. Never will be.” She kissed his fingers, and then stood back up. “Now go shave. Your jaw is like sand paper. Don’t know what I was thinking last night, but I’m not kissing that mess again.”
He laughed, and then kissed her forehead. “Alright sir.”
“‘Sir’?” She shook her head. “Make your own breakfast tomorrow.”
He paused. “Tell you what. Tonight, I’ll make you dinner.”
“No magic?”
He smiled, and then walked back over to her, placing his fingers elbow her chin. “No magic.” He turned back around and then started walking once more. “Till afterwards.”
“Hahah!”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 15:00:16 GMT -5
The basin was full of hot water before he even arrived in the room. The advantages of being a master magician. He removed his dressing gown and hung it on the door, and then applied some shaving foam. He looked at the water, beads dripping from the tap, and watched as the circles fluttered outward on impact. He placed his finger between the ripples and then looked at his reflection.
“Give it to me. Give it all to me.”
He nearly screamed. His face was a mess, blood and blackness dripping from wounds all over. His eye was swollen, there were bites on his neck, and his other eye was bloodied. His fist slammed into the surface hard, the mirror shattering and shards falling into the hot water. Blood rolled down his knuckles.
“I get it,” he grunted, as he watched the water turn crimson as his blood mixed with the mirror shards. “God damn.”
“Richard?” He turned, his wife, his one true love, Rose Psychic, standing there so beautiful in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”
“Not going to work.” He gritted his teeth, and then began to chant beneath his breath. He centred his being. He felt hands grab his arms.
“What are you doing? Is it the dream? It wasn’t real! This is! We’re together! We’re here!” He felt a hand on his chest. “Right here! Forever intertwined.” The hand’s grip tightened. His chest exploded with pain. “Together. Forever.”
“You’re not here,” he whispered, a burning sensation rushing up his limbs. He could almost swear that his skin was blistering and burning. “You’re. Not. Here.”
“You’re right. I burn in hell in place of the demon that exists in your soul. We traded places because you had a moment of weakness. Burning for eternity like a whore.”
His eyes opened wide.
Something was straddling him, pits for eyes and a mouth that contained thousands of teeth. Its finger nails, its talons, dug into his flesh, blood rushed down his limbs. He twitched, a feeling in his chest that felt like a well of darkness aching at his being. “Give it to me, you bastard. Give it to me right now.”
It arched its back, leaning back and screaming. Richard Occult gasped, and realised where he was. Las Vegas. He looked around. His shirt was torn open. His trenchcoat ripped to shreds and littering the dark warehouse floor around him. “Yes…”
“No.” He slammed his fingers into her chest, between the dead lumps of flesh that resembled breasts. It shrieked, so loud that Occult’s hair actually flew back, and he started pushing. “Give it back to me.”
The succubus began to writhe where it sat, old, withered skin beginning to peel of bone and wasted muscle. “Oh, no… Please… I give you what you want…”
“MINE.” Occult wrenched out his hand, a rotting piece of meat clasped between his digits. He squeezed the decaying heart between his fingers, black ooze dribbling down his wrist and forearm. The succubus suddenly froze rigid, and then with one great effort, Occult pulled back his arm and swung forward hard, and on impact the succubus exploded into dust, leaving him lying in a mess on the cold stone floor. He fell back, and groaned, his every fibre aching. “God. Damn.” He pulled his trousers up, and replaced his belt, and then stumbled to his feet. “God damn.” He doubled over and fell to his knees, unable to hold back the tears. “Rose…”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 15:01:44 GMT -5
“You like? I like. And you’re sure to like this tale as well. Meet Don, a writer whose astral form doesn’t travel the world…but through time. Look at his dreams of the past…and enjoy.”
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 15:05:29 GMT -5
The Pale Ones The woods had always welcomed them in the past. The comforting canopy of leaves, lush and deep green turning to a glorious cacophony of colors as the seasons marched by, all this was like a roof to the world for the two courageous men now penetrating the depths. The trees, some large and powerful with age, others wiry and slender with youth, were like friends to the two Pocomtuc braves. The river sliced through the land like an artery feeding the body of the valley, and it was all one grand house of the world for their tribe. The Swift River Valley, as it would come to be known centuries later, provided deer, and rabbits, and fish when the hunt was on, and gave rich soil for the grain when the growing times came. The two men slipped with equal ease through the thick underbrush and over felled trees whose time had passed and under heavy branches that held the skies above them. And in all their people's time, these woods were home, welcoming and comforting them all. But that had changed. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the woods, the entire valley had become less welcoming. Things seen moving behind the tree line. Things rested along banks of tranquil rivers and streams. Things pressed into the ground and left taint behind. The valley was turning away from them, from the Pocomtuc, and it left the people uneasy, and it forced them to retreat. They tried to unearth the truth. Warriors entered the valley, armed with tomahawk and bow. Could it be invading tribes, such as their enemies the Mohawks? Could it be some form of new beast that had migrated into the land? Had they angered the spirits of the Swift River? Few warriors returned, and those few who did had only one description. “Pale Ones.” |
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Post by Crow on Oct 30, 2007 15:08:13 GMT -5
Chief Nani-Quaben called upon his advisers for answers, and the medicine man named Blood-of-Thunder gave the answer. He was descended from the great chieftain and shaman Bright-Sky-After-Storm, Arak, the son of Thunder; and it was this blood that made him very skilled in understanding the spirit world. He had gone into the valley with his pipe and special tobacco, his medicine bag and his knowledge, and then come back three days later.
“There is a great migration of foreign spirits to our valley, squatting in our home and lands,” he announced to his people. “I have seen them with the special sight offered by my pipe smoke, but it also gave me a sense to the solution for our difficulties. There are two of the spirits that lead them, a chieftain and his female. It is these that our warriors called Pale Ones for the silver that erupts from their heads, and the milkiness of their forms. I know of weapons that can allow our braves to destroy these Pale Ones, and will set about getting them. You, o chieftain, must find two to wield these weapons. One should be our best archer, and the other are fiercest with the tomahawk.”
With that, Blood-of-Thunder departed the valley and the lands of the Pocomtuc, as the contests were begun under Nani-Quaben's watchful gaze. And so it was that when Blood-of-Thunder returned from his trek, Pajackok and Motega were presented to him, and to the whole of the Pocomtuc, as the champions of the tribes.
“Motega, to you I give this quiver of arrows,” Blood-of-Thunder said, passing the soft leather quiver filled with a dozen beautifully crafted projectiles. He then turned to face Pajackok with a proud smile. “And it is fitting to pass to you this tomahawk, cousin Thunder,” the medicine man said. The weapon was ornate, laden with totems and symbols, the soapstone head slender but strong. It was a pipe tomahawk, a weapon when wielded in battle, but Pajackok immediately noticed that in peace, it was a pipe, and he was given a small pouch of his cousin's own special tobacco. “Should you need extra guidance in the pursuit of the Pale Ones, smoke this and listen to what you hear,” Blood-of-Thunder stated sagely.
The people of the Pocomtuc then cheered their heroes, and a great feast was offered up, to praise the two brave young men, and to give offerings and prayers to the Great Spirit and his servitors, for help in the coming battle.
“Cousin, these weapons,” Pajackok started to ask the medicine man, as he held the tomahawk out, and Motega held out one of the arrows, “are stained in blood. And I feel a chill when my hands run over it, as if I were standing over my own grave. What are these weapons?”
“Their creation is lost in ancient times,” Blood-of-Thunder recited, as he tried to comfort the concerns of the two men, the celebrations continuing out in the circles of firelight away from where they spoke. “But they are seen as gifts for all the First People, passed down to us from the Great Spirit in order to protect ourselves from alien spirits, that would seek to despoil our homelands. When a need arises for them, a shaman seeks them out, following dreams and signs to the elder who currently possesses them, and brings them back for strong, young braves such as yourselves. You will use them to dispatch the alien spirits in our valley, and then I will keep them safe until the next elder needs them.”
The two nodded and returned to the celebration, and left Blood-of-Thunder to his own thoughts, that rumbled in his mind like the storms he was named after.
So it was on the next morning that the two warriors entered the valley, armed with their relics of war, penetrating the place that was their home once, but now seemed strange, tainted, hostile. The trees no longer seemed to be a roof, but instead loomed over them. Colors seemed to be duller, shadows deeper, and voices wafted like smoke in the warm late-summer air.
“Is this really our home now?” Motega asked as he parted tall grasses and passed into a small meadow, watching birds dart away at his arrival. “Don't you feel it? Nothing's the way it should be. Maybe...maybe this isn't meant to be our place anymore.”
“Don't be foolish, my friend,” Pajackok said in a strong, firm voice, a steadying hand clasped on Motega's shoulder. “We will not be driven from the lands that have been in our care for generations. Since great Arak himself brought the remnants of his people to this valley, it has been in the care of the Pocomtuc. Would you abandon it so easily?” He hefted the tomahawk in his hand, smiling faintly at the balance and heft of the weapon, the way it sat in his palm like it was born to his hand. “Would the Great Spirit have provided us these means of defending our people and this land if we were meant to be chased away? I will not be chased off by ghosts, no matter how much silver fire erupts from their heads.”
Motega nodded, still not so confident, but unwilling to let his people down. And so they pressed on deeper, letting the forest surround them, the aura envelope them. As the blanket of stars above blanketed the Sun, they made camp, a small fire and sturdy lean-to and ate at dried meat from their supplies. They were wary of eating the animals of the valley until the Pale Ones were driven off, and so they ate the dried foods they carried in with them.
“We should smoke the pipe,” Pajackok said as he cradled the tomahawk in his hands. “We need directions, guidance toward these ghostly chieftains.”
“Agreed,” Motega said with a nod, glancing at the weapon. They lit the tobacco, taking deep puffs and watching the soft green color of the smoke drift up into the sky, writhing around their heads.
“You must find the Womb.” Each of the men heard the voice, somewhere in the dark night, not far at all from where they sat and smoked. “There will I be cleansed, and the Valley claimed and things begin anew.”
The two men looked around, hearts racing and eyes wide. Motega was fearful of the sound, and tried to glance out into the forest, but the dark was an impenetrable wall that sealed off the small bubble of light from their fire, and trapped them in the small patch of land.
Pajackok smiled down at his tomahawk though, knowing the voice was speaking true, knowing the voice would lead them to the Womb, if he just listened to it in their travels when the morning arrived. The encroaching darkness didn't disturb him. He smiled, completely oblivious to what Motega continually saw from the barest corners of his vision. The dark wall hid the menace well, and Motega clutched his bow for the entire night of uneasy sleep. But Pajackok slept deep, slept well, comforted by visions of the Pale Ones dying under his heroic attack.
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