Date: 1/1/98 9:33 AM Pacific Daylight Time
From: Gaejin
A soft moan seeped from the essence of the night as the Daemon stepped through a fair laceration in the fabric of reality. His form was nearly impalpable---a shadowed cloak the cause of such. Soft footfalls carried him to the trio of men; tendrils of the fabric of dark seeped about the ground, a sign of decadence replacing that which was once full of vitae.Seraph greeted the center man with a meager nod upon arrival; he received one in return. A brief exchange of superfluous acknowledgements to the other two yielded only a slight drop in the tension which seemingly surrounded the four men in a field of oppresive, ceaseless, strain."Ghalandar," the dark whisper stated, breaking the serene quiet so particular of night; it's sound exuding from the shadows that crept about the Daemon's form, "I trust you have an assignment."A statement, not a question---the Gaejins were infamous for their insistant inquiries, even in situations of disadvantage. Some called it arrogant, others wise; in truth, it laid 'tween the two, shifting between vanity and decisiveness.Ghalandar, the man positioned in the center, was aware of such, and he responded to the pseudo-querie with a submissive nod and a meek whisper."Yes, yes--of course, Seraph.."He then paused for a moment to catch his breath, absently clearing his already-empty throat in an attempt to feign discomfort, and to deny his fear."..Governer Malkive is your target," he continued, confidence surging in his low voice as he gradually progressed, "The peasants of Peridon are discontent with his incessant dogma and inane ramblings of 'socio-brotherhood' and 'comraderie'. They find his actions to be most--""--unfounded?" Seraph interjected cooly, "Yes, I know.. but my time here is limited; I need the outlines, not the recrementitious hyberbole that enhances the aesthetic sense of the plan."The two other men shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Seraph's words. They could not distinguish an angry tone from an indulgent one; nobody could. Was he agitated..?"Please continue, though, Ghalandar," Seraph amended leniently...No, he wasn't. Thank god. A simultaneous, involuntary sigh escaped both men's dry mouths as the muscles in their bodies relaxed the firm grip on their nerves.Ghalandar exchanged a few nervous glances between his two cohorts before resuming; after a lengthy cessation: "Yes, Seraph, the pleibians wish their dictator dead, and they assigned me to find one skilled enough to carry through that which they desire. Malkive resides within the heavily fortified castle of Peridon---surely you've heard of it---where he delivers his will onto his myiad loyalists."He lulled his speech to adjust his collar which was riding at an annoying angle to the right---Seraph's right."The 'election' will be held three fortnights from this eve," he continued, "And in order for my employers to be pleased, Malkive must be done away with by then. Do you follow?"Seraph nodded briefly, the slight gesture displaying his pronounced dislike for being interrogated."Good.. here is the map to the castle; the statistics on his personal guard, the drawbridge sentries, and so forth; and Trevor, here, has a set of forged keys.."He trailed off as he noted the essence of Seraph's physical affirmation, gesturing to the man at his right while offering the informative articles to Seraph's outstretched hand.Seraph grasped the papers absently and obtained the set of keys from Trevor; he thrusted both of these into a vague fold on the interior of his cloak."Is that all?" Seraph demanded, his tone light yet full of the verbal essence of subjugation.A weak "Yes" parted through Ghalandar's thick, split lips. Even though he held in control, Seraph instilled within him some hidden fear; some sense of disturbance, warning Ghalandar to never cross him... Both he and Seraph were aware of each other's positions, both in physical and social respects, and a more or less loose regard was granted by both to the other in acknowledgement---hence Ghalandar's characteristic deference to Seraph's will or whim, be it agreeable or not.Thick, porous mist crept along the moonlight soil, casting a shifting essence about the men's feet as Seraph swirled about in a turn, one foot crossing over the other. A poly-helix of sickly-sweet smoke rose about his form as he stirred, then enveloped him within it's incorporeal embrace.Trevor, Ghalandar, and the other---Fynn---watched the spectacle of Seraph's departure from an omnipresent viewpoint; they were shaken by his presence to the point of tactile immaleability.The mists rescinded, dragging with it all evidence of Seraph's existance.Was he even there at all..?
Lunar pith.
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Date: 1/1/98 9:37 AM Pacific Daylight Time
From: Gaejin
The mammoth fortification labeled as Peridon broke the borderline of the horizon, progressively rising brazenly as Seraph neared with each fluid step. Dark armor esconced the curves of his form; indeed, he was dressed to kill.
Subtle poundings greeted each footfall---a meek counterpoint to the stillness of the night.
Steps grew in occurance, Seraph's speed increasing with each pump of the dark fluid that coursed within his veins.
Fifty feet---the castle thrusted wildly into the sky, a backlighted central spire spearing the everpresent lunar source which elucidated the faint outlines of the construction.
Faster still; thirty feet---the blurred visions of two sentries made their presence known in Seraph's eyes.
He drew closer in a mad sprint, his left fist slowly reaching to the bone-ivory hilt of his blade..
A sharp rasp echoed throughout the equable lull present on this night, the Hunter's Moon.
Death had drawn it's scythe; how ironic it would be that the Reapists would be the Reaped.
The awoken sentry would never see the vertical flail of Seraph's weaponed limb---a basal movement to one as well disciplined in combat as he.
Another reverbation---the limp form of the sentry hurtled to the accepting ground with an almost humorous drama characteristic of a cliché theatre production.
Seraph posessed no time to revel in the humor of this; the destruction of the other sentry proved too pressing to allow a brief respite in the violence.
Two slashes rendered the feverish man still save a few involuntary twitches of his leg.
How annoying.
((Not a post/tbc))
From: Gaejin
The mammoth fortification labeled as Peridon broke the borderline of the horizon, progressively rising brazenly as Seraph neared with each fluid step. Dark armor esconced the curves of his form; indeed, he was dressed to kill.
Subtle poundings greeted each footfall---a meek counterpoint to the stillness of the night.
Steps grew in occurance, Seraph's speed increasing with each pump of the dark fluid that coursed within his veins.
Fifty feet---the castle thrusted wildly into the sky, a backlighted central spire spearing the everpresent lunar source which elucidated the faint outlines of the construction.
Faster still; thirty feet---the blurred visions of two sentries made their presence known in Seraph's eyes.
He drew closer in a mad sprint, his left fist slowly reaching to the bone-ivory hilt of his blade..
A sharp rasp echoed throughout the equable lull present on this night, the Hunter's Moon.
Death had drawn it's scythe; how ironic it would be that the Reapists would be the Reaped.
The awoken sentry would never see the vertical flail of Seraph's weaponed limb---a basal movement to one as well disciplined in combat as he.
Another reverbation---the limp form of the sentry hurtled to the accepting ground with an almost humorous drama characteristic of a cliché theatre production.
Seraph posessed no time to revel in the humor of this; the destruction of the other sentry proved too pressing to allow a brief respite in the violence.
Two slashes rendered the feverish man still save a few involuntary twitches of his leg.
How annoying.
((Not a post/tbc))
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DoS Archive
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Date: 1/2/98 12:30 PM Pacific Daylight Time
From: Gaejin
Vast expanses of wall embellished with a myriad sundry decorations displayed Malkive's affection for all that hedonistic and aesthetic. Periodic chandeliers hung still from the high ceiling; lit, they spewed forth an abundance of illumination upon the gold-washed halls and various self-portraits commisioned onto famous artists by he himself, the Governor.
A harsh juxtaposition was Seraph in these halls: a celestial being amongst a microcosm of all that temporal.
Various corridors spawned left and right, leading the wanderer into some obscure chamber occluded with a specific genre of occult items.
Seraph determined the corollary for inspecting a room such as these to be less than painful; hence he ventured to navigate the lavish halls to the chamber located at the furthest position in the main corridor.
A collection of prize animals--stuffed--greeted his roaming gaze as he swung open the massive oaken door which offered little less than a quiet creak in protest. These animals were cursed to an eternity molded in some grotesque stance; a slight epiphany erupted in Seraph's broadminded conciousness---how interesting it would be to doom a man into such a fate.
The humor quickly left him; he retreated back to the main hall to continue his journey towards the bedchamber of the Governer---Sister Time knows no mercy.
An octet of footsteps carried him to the spiraling case of stairs leading to the second, third, and fourth floors---a solitary door offering escape at each level to the roamer.
He drifted up the congruent planks of wood, pausing at the mouth of the door labelled with a corroded bronze "3"; with a nudge of his forearm, the door yielded open and he stepped through the low overhang.
Negotiating the various twists and turns of the snaking antechamber, he meandered down the dimly lit hall; albeit slow, his steps were filled with a calm determinance so pronounced of one as patient as he.
His armored fist groped in the concetrated darkness for but a moment upon reaching the terminal of the corridor, finally locking solidly upon the cast-iron knob of the door that he endeavored to open. A twist of his wrist, and the mechanism deferred, granting passage to the haven located beyond the oaken construction.
The duo of gloriously blazing eyes flared through the palpitating darkness of the bedchamber to appear as some levitating coals of crimison, focusing upon the periodically heaving form of the sleeping man.
Horizontal slits of red poison remained locked upon the corpus as their owner stepped through the entranceway to pause at the foot of the bed.
A white flash of steel---the deliverer of eternal peace was wrenched silently from its obsidian sheath, opting a quiet entrance to a grand one.
Dreams of lust, passion, and hedonism filled that resting crown, forcing the man to remain oblivious to the serrated arch of black metal that screamed through the darkness an inch from the tender flesh of his exposed neck.
Feverishly, Malkive's bloodshot eyes flared open as if electrocuted.
He saw his limp body remain upon the bed as he tumbled haphazardly to the floor, despite the various revolutions his decapitated member incurred.
He saw a shadowed form towering above him amidst a flurry of bright flashes in his eyes---the mind flailing madly in defiance of death.
He failed to see, though, his lifeless body sliced into a horde of giblets, as the black hand of dissolution claimed his vision with a grasp that rank of the crypt; he failed to see himself wrenched from the ground and thrust into a ragged onion sack; he failed to see himself speared upon an iron spike within the town square.
He failed to see the leering faces of the ignorant yokels spew forth a volley of vicious curses.
Perhaps that was for the better.
From: Gaejin
Vast expanses of wall embellished with a myriad sundry decorations displayed Malkive's affection for all that hedonistic and aesthetic. Periodic chandeliers hung still from the high ceiling; lit, they spewed forth an abundance of illumination upon the gold-washed halls and various self-portraits commisioned onto famous artists by he himself, the Governor.
A harsh juxtaposition was Seraph in these halls: a celestial being amongst a microcosm of all that temporal.
Various corridors spawned left and right, leading the wanderer into some obscure chamber occluded with a specific genre of occult items.
Seraph determined the corollary for inspecting a room such as these to be less than painful; hence he ventured to navigate the lavish halls to the chamber located at the furthest position in the main corridor.
A collection of prize animals--stuffed--greeted his roaming gaze as he swung open the massive oaken door which offered little less than a quiet creak in protest. These animals were cursed to an eternity molded in some grotesque stance; a slight epiphany erupted in Seraph's broadminded conciousness---how interesting it would be to doom a man into such a fate.
The humor quickly left him; he retreated back to the main hall to continue his journey towards the bedchamber of the Governer---Sister Time knows no mercy.
An octet of footsteps carried him to the spiraling case of stairs leading to the second, third, and fourth floors---a solitary door offering escape at each level to the roamer.
He drifted up the congruent planks of wood, pausing at the mouth of the door labelled with a corroded bronze "3"; with a nudge of his forearm, the door yielded open and he stepped through the low overhang.
Negotiating the various twists and turns of the snaking antechamber, he meandered down the dimly lit hall; albeit slow, his steps were filled with a calm determinance so pronounced of one as patient as he.
His armored fist groped in the concetrated darkness for but a moment upon reaching the terminal of the corridor, finally locking solidly upon the cast-iron knob of the door that he endeavored to open. A twist of his wrist, and the mechanism deferred, granting passage to the haven located beyond the oaken construction.
The duo of gloriously blazing eyes flared through the palpitating darkness of the bedchamber to appear as some levitating coals of crimison, focusing upon the periodically heaving form of the sleeping man.
Horizontal slits of red poison remained locked upon the corpus as their owner stepped through the entranceway to pause at the foot of the bed.
A white flash of steel---the deliverer of eternal peace was wrenched silently from its obsidian sheath, opting a quiet entrance to a grand one.
Dreams of lust, passion, and hedonism filled that resting crown, forcing the man to remain oblivious to the serrated arch of black metal that screamed through the darkness an inch from the tender flesh of his exposed neck.
Feverishly, Malkive's bloodshot eyes flared open as if electrocuted.
He saw his limp body remain upon the bed as he tumbled haphazardly to the floor, despite the various revolutions his decapitated member incurred.
He saw a shadowed form towering above him amidst a flurry of bright flashes in his eyes---the mind flailing madly in defiance of death.
He failed to see, though, his lifeless body sliced into a horde of giblets, as the black hand of dissolution claimed his vision with a grasp that rank of the crypt; he failed to see himself wrenched from the ground and thrust into a ragged onion sack; he failed to see himself speared upon an iron spike within the town square.
He failed to see the leering faces of the ignorant yokels spew forth a volley of vicious curses.
Perhaps that was for the better.