City of IF

[Gallant]

Hello? I'm just about fool hardy enough me thinks. :D
And who says I need to fight for the blood? Maybe I can do some clever bargaining, or even dig up some dirt and black mail a bit? There is no end to how many potential scenarios there could be. In other words, stop whinging or you might just once again become a victim. :P

[NeverNeverGirl]

An Interlude.


The terrace house on Skiffington Lane stood a silent sentinel, a vestige of a past long left behind, its gardens a shade of what was before. A tangible echo of the foreboding feeling that drives one deeper under their sheets at night to escape the dread chill of placing a bare foot on the floorboard to investigate the dull thudding sound downstairs. The long windows were mostly devoid of glass, boarded up haphazardly with pieces of wood, once immaculate red velvet curtains now hung in tatters, faded and mouldy.

In the front garden the picket fence rots on its rails and weeds overrun the yard, the once immaculate lawns and pond are littered with refuse and the casual observer would more than likely turn their head away and tut to their companion as to the state of the place.

It is a forgotten place, many years have passed since a child has been dared by his fellows to spend a night inside, or to mount the stairs and knock. It sits as if alone, in a street teeming with houses. No one knows why it hasn't been pulled down - its as though everytime they begin to contemplate it that the mind wanders to a new subject.. slipping away from the thought before it is even fully formed.

Yet those with a sharper eye for detail will notice some less obvious features. That, for example, on the third floor – second window from the right – there are cheery yellow curtains (though a bit faded) and where the other remaining windows are smudged and black, this one is clean and bright. A small wooden window box hangs from the sill and it bears up several of the most hauntingly beautiful of the flowers known as Mirabilis Jalapa or Night Flowers.*

They may even, if they watch and pause long enough, see a sight which twists their soul and breaks their heart clean in two.

For everyday at infrequent intervals the phantom of a young girl looks out of the window, her beautiful features twisted between an expression of anxiety and despondence, her palm flat against the window as she silently beseeches to that for which she waits. Or perhaps Whom for which she waits. Silently she stands, until the unearthly tears that cannot be seen from so far away but which have perhaps been coursing for the duration, are wiped away with deft hands and she fades away from sight.


This day, one stops to observe and after witnessing this tender scene with hardned heart opens the gate. For the first time in remembrance it glides open with no resistance and the ease of newly oiled hinges. He takes sure and steady steps, his tread firm, placing one foot upon the path then the other. Making his way unhesitatingly towards the broken porch.

Tall, exceedingly so, as if stretched to the utmost by a medieval rack, he whom walks this path is on first inspection Ordinary. His features are long and not unhandsome, his nose is roman and his eyes are an eerie blue grey. His mouth is set in a grim line not of determination or tenacity or silent resignation, it is a slit that slices open his face from one cheek to the other. There is no softness there, nothing but the firm pressure of lips pushed together. This face it is but a mask, that which from afar covers the truth.

He is a being, whose every feature, every minute part of his essence, exudes the bleakness of the witching hour - from his long grey trench to his grey top hat. He exudes a melancholy that sets small children to crying and maids to weeping at his passing. He is the chill dread that runs down the spine, he is the numbness of the given up heart, the evil that settles on the soul when all hope is lost. His shoulders are squared, he is not hunched over he moves with determination obvious to all who watch. Though it is not many who can allow their eyes to linger comfortably on this fellow before they start to feel the creeping numbness seeping into their bones.

He is the GreyMan.

He pauses, hand raised rapping once smartly upon the door, when it swings inward as if he is expected and without a backward glance, he enters.

*The Night Flower – as its name implies blooms only at night and closes during the day.

[The White Blacksmith]

Oooh, spooky!

Also, I'd mess with Rai. I might not survive it, but I still would.

[NeverNeverGirl]

Chapter the 3rd

The silver globe of the moon, hanging in the blue black sky, shone through the arched balcony doors. The matte finish of the open doorframes did little to absorb the spill of light which penetrated into the darkly furnished room. It pooled itself into a beam of light that occasioned to splash itself upon the face of the High Lord Chancellor.
His features were cast into contrasting highlights and shadows, from deep blacks to silvery whites, the play of light causing his countenance to wax between angelic and demonic - his eyes lost in pools of darkness then glinting in the moonlight.

Lord of the Night paced the length of the study, his black polished shoes clicking on the smooth white marble floor. He removed his glasses and folded them carefully, tucking them into his inner breast pocket as he agitatedly glanced at the clock on his mantle. The impeccably tailored suit coupled with the smooth black hair, the consummate air of control which surrounded him, these all made him more than obviously a man for whom statecraft* was as natural as breathing.

His normally calm demeanor had been ruffled by the period of waiting which he was currently being made to undertake. He had just moved to pick up the telephone on his desk and summon his secretary when the door from his private quarters burst inwards.

A flurry of red silk burst into the room and despite himself Lord of the Night found a smile playing on his lips at the sight of her. Slightly the worse for wear NeverNeverGirl giggled at the look on his face, half annoyance – half bemused pleasure, and threw her arms around him in a hug.

‘Hey there you! Hope you haven’t been waiting too long..’

Allowing himself a moment’s pause to enjoy it, Lord of the Night quickly regained his composure.

‘Hello pet, I hope you have had a pleasant evening – we were expected at Key’s residence 25 minutes ago – I do hope that you at the very least, have an adequate excuse.’

Disengaging himself he straightened his jacket and let the stern look on his face speak for him. NeNe didn’t acknowledge the implication and lifted herself up to perch on his desk, smiling coquettishly.

‘Care to take a seat? I’ve already changed..’

‘I’m fine, get on with it love, we really must get going..’

NeNe sighed exasperatedly, she really did love the performance, she knew that he knew this and that usually he indulged it. His lack of cosseting forced her to speak plainly when any amount of begging would not have.

‘Well I was having a few drinks with Lily when I heard the most inter..’

The phone intersected her speech, trilling loudly in its cradle. Lordy scooped it up answering with a clipped hello. He muttered inaudibly into the receiver and replaced the handset.

‘The story will have to wait, Key has sent a car for us and it is waiting at the front entrance.’

Extending his arm he swept them both out of the study door and onto the landing, descending the grand staircase and entering the overly opulent grand foyer where the Butler, the ever loyal cheese scented Smudger opened the doors.

NeNe twirled on the stoop and posed.

‘You didn’t comment on my outfit…’ Her pout was perfectly formed, the result of hours practice in her mirrors.

Lordy raised an eyebrow and gave her a sweeping glance, returning quickly to the task of getting into the King’s car.

‘Nothing less than I would have expected pet.’

Taking it as the compliment it was NeNe joined Lordy in the town car with a giggle, slipping her arm through his. The black car bearing the flags of the King moved away from the curb and into the IFian night.



* * * *


Her name had long ago been lost to her but she knew her story well. She had waited here for many years for someone to come knocking yet none ever had, until now. And despite wishing it upon every sign available to her, shooting stars and the like, for hundreds of years she now wanted every single one unwished.

The Grayman prowled the room with the menace of a hell beast; she trembled quietly in her seat and flinched visibly when he looked her way.

Heh, she thought to herself, it’s not really looking… it’s hard to look when you have no face.

She tried overly hard to push the face from her mind yet the more she struggled to do so the longer it stuck, each time becoming more and more indelible. He had appeared at first, in her little yellow sitting room, as a gentleman in a suit with a grey top hat, trench coat folded over his arm – as if he was a Lord come back from a hunting trip. She had smiled at him, full of eager hope; expectant that this was the one for whom she had waited. He had taken a seat before her and in every way he seemed human, a little stretched perhaps, but human still – until he had removed his hat and his face had slipped off as well.

Where should have reclined a nose, eyes and mouth (not to mention chin, cheeks and brow) there was nothing but a flat grey surface. It seemed as smooth as a pane of glass yet murky grey and even though he spoke to her in flat dry tones there were no lips from which to expel the sound. The thought of it made her flesh crawl and she avoided looking at the blank space between his ears.

‘Well little one.. whats it to be?’ The chill tones crept over her skin.

She realised that she hadn’t been paying attention to what he was saying and pulled her legs up to her chest, fearfully peering up at the Grayman.

‘P..p..pardon?’

She found herself being flung through the air and pinned to the wall, her incorporeal form not seeming to be a hindrance to his assault. She clutched his hand and tried to pry it from her throat, gasping for breath that she knew that she hadn’t needed in decades.

‘I heard your wishes, your dreams bored their way into my mind in the empty silences of eternity. They travelled through space and time to my humble abode in the twilights of infinity…. You summoned me little one…’ He caressed her face with a gentle hand, almost lovingly.

She shivered again under his touch, something that should have been so impossible – touching her.

‘You, little one, drew me forward from the grey with your dreams of revenge. All of your thoughts sung to the malignancy, my craving for pain.. fear.’

Phanto inhaled sharply, feeling it at last – again, the sweet pure feeling of air in her lungs.

‘What? What have You done to me? What have I done?’ her tones almost a whisper.

‘You just unleashed Me upon IF.. and I just gave you back your life…’

* * * *
It was part of his daily ritual, they were important to him these little moments, to walk down the road past the old Terrace house, immerse himself in the shadows and watch for her at the window. He would pause just long enough to see her wipe her eyes and then, with a heart heavy and unsure, would move on to the Inn to partake of a bevy or two.

This day he had paused, waited and she had not come.

Then he had seen the Man at the window instead. Creeping forward, through the garden gate, he had climbed up to peer through the window to investigate further. Driven by some compelling need to know what was happening – despite every instinct that screamed he should run – one voice urged him ever onwards. He had just managed to make out the scene behind the window when he saw the girl thrown backwards across the room.

As soon as he could blink the Man had her pinned to the wall, she was kicking, struggling and just as suddenly went limp.

DeadManWalking didn’t know what to do, he just knew he had to do something…





*statecraft - defined in the Dictionary of If as being the ability to remove ones opposition without leaving evidence.

[The White Blacksmith]

Ooh! The pot thickens...

Or plot. Whatever.

Anyway, as for the DP, I think he firstly tries to get in and finds the door locked, then goes off to find other Ifians, both to break down the door and to help him fight the Greyman. This is also, coincidentally, the perfect chance to introduce other Ifians.

Like me.

[DeadManWalking]

why am i a stalker in this?

It makes me sad.

me?

I don't need HELP?

I obviously rush in heroically to save the damsel in distress, grabbing a handy wooden plank, jump in through the window, trip on the windowframe, hit my head on the bad guys back, causing him to fall over (due to all my built up velocity) then get flicked back out the window into a random group of IFians doing something, then come back again to rush in heroically, this time with a lot more people.

[Syranore]

Hehehe...i love the GreyMan reference. You fit it in quite well. Note, if somehow this does end up using my blood instead of Rai's, i'll be hunting down and dismembering a few people.

[Phantomfan]

Gah! I'm alive?!?!? :shock:

But really- that was awesome.

I say he should leave the once-dead-girl to die! Or to be attacked or whatever.

Nice chappy!!!

[The White Blacksmith]

Will there be a poll happening any time soon?