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Kalanna Rai
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 Posted: Sun Mar 02, 2008 11:28 pm Post subject: ILS: PeaceTaker |
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Please do not post in this thread. All questions, comments, answers, hints, tips, tricks, clues, ideas, criticisim, witicisim, and other helpful bits should be posted HERE instead. Thank you and Enjoy!
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Chapter One: The Man from the West
The sun glared above the salt flats, burning into the eyes of all who dared to turn their gazes toward the heavens. A fine grit, a dust, swirled on the vagabond wind. Heat shimmered in lazy ripples as this salty sand of a desert sea stung the skin of the unprotected. Playful, not yet the storm that threatened in the far distance of the west. Those who labored in this land were few, merchants mostly who would go where no sane man should in search of riches. Yet even these hardy fools were casting wary eyes toward the wall of wailing clouds that stretched the western horizon. One such caravan was in grave danger indeed.
They urged their beasts faster, wagon wheels creaking away as the oxen pulled harder in their yokes. A few sharp eyed scouts rode swift ponies around the columns, ever vigilant for those raiders who seemed born of the sand. They would fall upon the caravans with utter savagery and wipe out the traces, offerings to a hungry desert which would surely swallow such a paltry feast whole. The teamsters kept one eye on their beasts, the other on their weapons should need of such arise. But it seemed even the raiders knew better than to risk the wrath of the oncoming storm.
A cry suddenly went out, one scout pointing in the direction of the oncoming storm. Fearing nature more than man, the members of the train were more than surprised to see a lone rider crossing the flats at speeds that would soon see his lathered horse dead. His long reins flicked back and forth as he whipped his beasts flanks, heedless of the bloody weals that had already risen there. The merchants, about to blame the rider's careless haste on the storm, could only stare in wide eyed wonder as a single shot rang out with cold clarity. Carrying despite the heat that saturated the air.
The horse tumbled end over end, it's rider soaring through the air like a carelessly tossed rag doll, his limp flight drawing the eyes of all spectators. Another rider materialized from the shifting sands of the west, a man in black on a tall black horse. His beast too, was running a good pace but beginning to slow now that it's prey was laying dead on the sands ahead. The man leaned over the back of his beast, his gun sliding back into a holster concealed by the long coat he wore. He seemed injured to the trained eyes among the caravan, a stoic man who's ability to hide his pain had vanished with the rigors of the long ride he must have endured.
Now his horse skidded to a halt, throwing up clouds of grit as it did so, nearly sitting on it's rump to avoid stumbling over the body of the other horse. It snorted and pawed the ground as it regained it's balance, clean lines and good breeding showing in every move it made. Good training as well as it could have been a statue while it's master slid slowly from it's back. The man in black walked purposefully to where the rider of the downed steed was just rousing from the effects of his tumble. One leg was clearly broken, twisted back up under him like a used matchstick. He blinked, his eyes focusing enough for him to recognize his foe because he let loose a scream that set the oxen bellowing and the scout's ponies dancing in skittish fear.
The man in black moved slowly toward the man as he attempted to crawl away, hands scrabbling uselessly at the sands. Again the gun came free, it's matte black barrel drinking up the light of the angry sun till the barrel looked as if it had already fired a moment before. The crawling man screamed one last time as the gunman cocked his weapon. "You have been weighed, measured, and found wanting. Farewell." Another shot echoed and the screaming man was silent. For a moment the gunman stood there, swaying slightly, as he put his weapon away for what the merchants hoped was a final time.
He knelt and took something from the dead man, not his wallet or anything visibly valuable to the merchants' eyes, and stood again. This time though, the gunman did more than sway in the increasing wind. He stumbled backwards, his wide brimmed hat tumbling backwards to allow long hair the color of corn silk to billow free. He didn't cry out, merely reached for something that wasn't there, the bridal of his horse perhaps? He fell not far from his victim, a small plume of dust going up from his body. His horse now moved forward to nudge him, once then twice. It looked up in the direction of the coming storm, snorted, and began to nudge him even more urgently, whinnying desperately.
Words whispered through the column and some of the swift scouts and others were dispatched to where the deadly tableau had finished playing itself out. The horse spotted those that came with ropes and chains, taking flight on fleet hooves before them. The scouts knelt beside both men, though they knew one clearly dead, and one was quickly dispatched back to the merchants'. Again the whispering of words and now was the gunman lifted from the sands and bourne gently to one of the wagons in back, the healers' wagon.
The steed refused to be caught and after only a few moments, moments they could ill afford to lose, those who were attempting the futile exercise returned empty handed. The caravan resumed their desperate struggle onward, towards shelter from the storm. The man was on the minds of many but quickly forgotten in the flight to stay alive. He was not forgotten by the healers who tended him, those who struggled to save the life of a man who clearly had no respect for such.
His clothing was largely intact, the coat riddled with bullet holes, the shirt and pants below stained with blood but un-holed. His boots were heavy and thick, not something often seen in these parts of the world, indeed his whole manner of dress was similar yet strange. His skin was canvas of a life led behind and before the barrel of a gun, bullet wounds dancing across the tawny chest and limbs. Now, rivulets and smears of blood leaked from a bandage that was as expertly made and applied as their own, it was the stitches beneath that were at fault.
Torn open by hard riding, the wound now sent rivulets of blood through the saturated bandage, smears of crimson painting the canvas of skin where the fabric of his clothes had soaked it up and moved with it. The three healers looked long and hard at the wound, which should rightly have ended this man's life long ago. The stamina and sheer willpower needed to sustain this injury and remain active escaped the three who huddled in their robes and stared at it, moving numbly to gather the things they would use to try and save what life remained in the man. The question they never thought to ask was did the man even want to be saved?
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_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
Last edited by Kalanna Rai on Sun Mar 02, 2008 11:49 pm; edited 1 time in total
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| Posted: Sun Mar 02, 2008 11:37 pm Post subject: |
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Again, please do not post in this thread. Post HERE instead. Thank you and Enjoy!
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Chapter Two: Of Miracles and Wyrids
The three healers labored through the rest of the day and into the night, a night as clear and cold as any seen in these regions. Because they were cramped in their small wagon with glow-stones to light their workspace and no doors nor windows to let in the harmful humors of the outdoors, they missed the miracle that the rest of the caravan witnessed. They missed something so wild and wonderful, most of those who saw it disbelieved it until it was forgotten from their memories. Dismissed as a dream.
The storm, which had grown so large as to be an impassable wall spanning the western horizon, had gained rapidly upon the caravan despite their best efforts to find shelter. Too soon the winds had begun to pick up and what had been the softest caress of windblown sands had become a stinging assault that would soon have the force to strip the flesh from their bones. The roar of the storm was as that of a ravening beast, it's maw miles wide and stretching to devour them whole. A pitiful morsel. A small snack.
Then, the scream of a hawk had echoed with such force as to make the storm grow silent. The winds abruptly stopped and, when a person turned toward the west to check the progress of the ruthless storm, they disbelieved their eyes. The light seemed to shimmer and curve around something that was and yet was definitely not there. It bent around the form of a massive hawk, a hawk who's crest was made of clouds, who's wings were swirling sands, a hawk so huge and mighty that the gentle fanning of its massive wings was enough to pound the storm into submission. As the many pairs of stunned eyes watched, the storm went from ravening beast to mewling babe, it's once powerful winds scattering as so many zephyrs and dust devils that troubled not the littlest lizard.
Yet the healers saw none of this, though they saw something else that was wondrous in its own way. After they had stripped both coat and shirt from their patient, they gazed upon an object that was both common and rare. A wyrid, a holy emblem, hung around his neck and rested upon his skin. As if the weight of their gazes were what it was waiting for it burst into light that eclipsed those of the glow-stones, a small sun of cold white light. The gunman reacted slightly to this, his fists clenching and his jaw working slightly as his eyes rapidly flicked under his lids.
Wyrids were nothing special in truth. They were a visible symbol that a person was held in favor by one, and on occasion more than one, of the Great Spirits. They often granted powers or boons to the wearer, such as the gift of Healing each of those standing above the man possessed. Once a wyrid had been something rare and wondrous, but now days most folks had one. There were some that were uncommon, and a few that were considered rare.
Between them these three healers had seen their fair share of wyrids which meant the one the gunman possessed was indeed, something very special since none of them recognized it. It was circular in shape and made of stone. It was a perfectly smooth ring, two inches across, the hole in the center just big enough to put your little finger through. The ring was about as thick as a mans middle finger, carved all about with odd markings. The sinews of a wolf were wrapped around the outer edge, passing across the center before looping back with no visible ends, intricately twined almost like the web of a spider, but one of them knew well that the Spider had not chosen this man.
Beads carved from the talons of a hawk, and the claws of a cougar and bear, threaded the sinews while a braided plait of horse hair, mixed with a few strands of the man's own corn silk mane, bore beads of elk antler and ravens beak. That plait held the wyrid on the gunman's neck as securely as any iron chain. A piece of all seven of the Good Spirits on the same wyrid...uncanny to say the least but it could mean nothing. It could mean everything.
The healers managed to put the glowing wyrid out of their minds as they worked to make sure the gunman's wound was empty of shrapnel and fragments before removing the remains of the surgeon neat stitches. They cleaned the crusted blood off the wound, fighting a futile battle as crimson tides continued to roll forth and coat their hands. The ragged edges where the stitches had torn free were useless for the fresh stitches and required them to move further out into untainted flesh for the thread to take. Slowly did the eldest of them, a man with a cap of hair like the snow on the peak of a mountain, pull the ragged edges together with neat rows of clean thread, the needle diving in and out of the gunman's flesh like some hooked fish. Jumping and dancing and always pulling on the line.
When he finished the second eldest, a woman with long raven hair and ruby lips, reached forward with a jar of salve to smear some on the wound before the youngest, a girl with summer eyes, bound the wound in clean gauze. Yet when her fingers were but a hair's breath away, the gunman's wyrid flashed brighter than ever causing the healers to throw up their hands to shield their eyes even as the man himself gasped a strangled word. The jar of salve flew across the wagon to shatter against one of the walls the waning wyrid light illuminating the viscous liquid as it slowly oozed toward the floor.
As the storm died outside so did the light of the wyrid subside and the gunman himself slipped into a state of near coma. For a moment the healers gazed at him before the youngest began, with trembling hands, to bind the gauze around his torso, the other two lifting the gunman's midsection to allow her to pass the bandage under him when needed. At last it was wrapped good and tight and no blood leaked through to stain the snowy surface. Still, none of the healers held great hope for his continued life as they gazed at the coating of crimson that lined the bed of their workspace. How could one body hold so much blood?
As their wagon came to a halt, they wiped their hands and quickly chose who would stay and watch the gunman first. The youngest healer was quickly elected as her youthful energy was still strong and she had done the least of the tiring work. She watched quietly as the other two departed and waited a long time before she sat next to the table bed where her patient was stretched out. She ran fingertips lightly across his forehead, brushing away corn silk strands as she felt for any signs of a fever. Finding none she smiled.
"You'll live. I know it. Hawkmother keeps you, she tells me so." Her other hand pressed against the Healing wyrid of the Hawk which hung around her neck, pulling on it's chain so that it could dangle above the man. A slight shimmer danced across the surface and the young healer returned the wyrid to it's place under her blouse. "I am Ingrane and I know these things sir gunman. You will live."
As she gazed at him, frowning as she tallied the marks of a violent life that painted his flesh, her mind suddenly seized upon something she didn't realize she knew. The word the gunman had spoken as his wyrid had flared. A word nearly lost amid shattering glass and her own half scream of blindness. She chewed her bottom lip, summer eyes gone dark and stormy, as she troubled the word over in her thoughts. What could he have meant by it. Unbidden the word passed her own lips, softly. "Tomorrow."
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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Kalanna Rai
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| Posted: Sun Mar 02, 2008 11:42 pm Post subject: |
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Incase you don't feel like scrolling to the top again post all replies HERE. Thank you!
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Chapter Three: The Poisoner
The caravan had traveled far, stopping only briefly that night before carrying on. It was almost as if they were instilled with more energy than they could handle, that they had to move or else it would eat them from the inside out and leave empty husks that turned to powder at the first feather light touch of reality. The eldest healer came into the wagon shortly after daybreak to relive Ingrane patting her on the shoulder and smiling. "Alright Ingrane. Go get some food and some rest. I'll watch over our patient here."
For a moment it looked as if the young woman would protest but, biting her lip with an anxious glance at the unconscious gunman, she stood and nodded. "Alright Gustav, I'll leave him in your capable hands. You yell if he wakes up, you hear?" Gustav guffawed and shooed Ingrane out the door with fluttering hand motions, waiting till the girl was a few steps away from the wagon before shutting the door. He turned and looked at the gunman who lay like a carved idol on the table bed, the soft light of the glow-stones tangling in his silken locks.
With a sigh that belied the creaking of his old bones, Gustav settled into the chair Ingrane had only recently left and began his vigil with the shake of his grey head. "Buster, I don't know who you are and I don't care when it comes down to it. But I'm in the business of saving lives when they're handed to me and you've been handed to me. Now were I you I could probably have justified doing less than my best and not shed a tear when you passed on."
Gustav sighed. "But I'm not. I swore to heal all that I could and I've got this strange feeling that you're one of those who'll pull through. It's Wolf's Intuition." Gustav gave a roguish smile at the still form of the gunman. "I was quite a hell-raiser when I was younger, lemme tell you. Had a nose for trouble, still do. And buster...you smell like a heap of trouble." The elder healer reached up to the pouch that hid his wyrid from the world, feeling the way it was heated. It scared him, the way Wolf was howling through him, echoing in his bones. It was as if the mere presence of the gunman was making the Spirits restless and, through them, the mortals as well.
Now, as he stared down at the man, he was seized by the urge to withdraw his wyrid from it's residing place in the leather bag. Revealing it to the world for the first time in half a century, Gustav was stunned as it burst into light alongside that of the gunman. The howl of the wolf echoed deeply, overshadowing another sound that Gustav's aged ears couldn't quite make out. The light pulsed, Wolf's howl dying away as the gunman's wyrid overshadowed that of the healer, the brilliant light casting his features into stark relief. Were it not for that light, Gustav might never have seen the man's lips move, read the words they spoke. "Her measure is short."
Gustav was more than willing to turn the man over to the third healer when she arrived that evening to take up her third of the watch. He stood with hands that shook and gazed at her with eyes that were glazed and hollow...haunted. "Be careful with this one Valerie, he's more dangerous than I thought."
Raven haired Valerie merely laughed at Gustav, patting him on the shoulder and planting a kiss in the middle of his forehead. "Don't be silly Gus. In the condition he's in, even if he does manage to make it through I'll have plenty of time to get out of his way. Honey, he's going to be recuperating from that for a long...long time."
Gustav shook his head, burying shaking hands in his pockets. "All I'm saying is be careful." He didn't linger, his duty done with the warning imparted he quickly removed himself from the wagon and the disturbing presence of the gunman on the table bed. Valerie watched him with quiet amusement buried on her face, not moving until she was sure he wasn't going to suddenly come back. Then she turned to take a long hard look at the man entrusted to her care.
His age couldn't be placed, strange since she was normally good at guessing ages, but he couldn't have been forty...hell she'd have said even thirty-five was pushing it. His corn silk hair was thick and fine, as clean as could be considering the circumstances. It haloed his head as it fanned across the makeshift pillow that propped it up, and probably hung to just below his shoulder blades when he stood. His shoulders were broad, farmers' or blacksmiths' shoulders...well used to hard work and rough conditions. His torso was long and firm, belly taut and with muscles standing out in sharp definition even in the low light of the glow-stones.
His limbs were long and straight, had he been a horse she'd have said he had clean lines, his hands huge and so calloused the palms were hard as boot leather. His fingers were slightly curled in relaxation yet even so his index finger seemed to be resting on the trigger of some nonexistent gun. Somehow that action made Valerie shudder and search for something else to look at, anything to distract her attention from the murderous intent that seemed to lurk in the man even now.
With a smile she sat next to him, smoothing the folds of her skirts with an automatic motion. Her fingers reached out gently for the wyrid around his neck and she was force to snatch them back quickly with a yelp when it flared white hot and singed them so badly the tips blistered. Her eyes flashed in fury as her own wyrid glimmered under the thin cloth of her blouse. "Oh, you'll pay for that. I was going to give you an easy death, a quiet poison that simply stopped your heart and put you to sleep. You'd never have known, just would never have woken." Standing she turned angrily to where her vials and jars were stored amid the communal space of the wagon.
Pulling free a green vial, she turned to him nastily. "But this beauty is venom of the Spider herself. This will put your soul through agony not yet imagined even after it has ripped it free of your body. You'll be trapped in the Web forever, subject to her whims as she returns again and again to feast from your energies. An eternity of nothing but the pain of her fangs. Yes, this is what the Webmistress demands of me, this is what shall please her." She turned around for only a moment to pull the stopper from the vial and make sure only a single drip remained on the long slender needle of glass that ran from the bottom of the stopper.
But, just as the beautiful single bead of venom formed, there was a sound a thousand times more horrific than the fate she had just described. A sound that turned her blood to ice water, her knees to jelly, and excised her spine wholly. It was the sound of a hammer being cocked, a gun being readied. She slowly turned, horror filled eyes already knowing what they would find.
He had rolled onto his side and stomach, his shimmering blond hair tangling and spilling across his face and shoulders, electric blue eyes searing into her own frozen gaze. One handgun was gripped in his hand, it's barrel turned toward her with unwavering accuracy. "You have been weighed, measured, and found wanting. Farewell."
"Wait..." her final plea got no further as the bullet ripped free of the gun barrel and took half her face with it when the two of them collided. Her body hit the floor, vial of deadly venom spilling onto the floor of the wagon and mixing with her blood, eating through the wood to drip onto the sands below.
The gunman forced himself into a sitting position and pulled on his coat, settling his hat on his flyaway hair as he finally managed to stand. Belting his guns back on he stared at the dead woman a minute before leaning down and blowing softly on her cooling blood. Anyone watching would have seen the shadow of the spider that scuttled before the ripples and would have seen that the ripples themselves took the form of some bird of prey. There was a flash of light from his wyrid as the bird sized the spider, the pair of them vanishing as the gunman ceased his actions and stood.
He reached out to the woman's cooling body, his long fingers brushing the nape of her neck. Finding what he was looking for he sized the cord from which her wyrid hung and gave it a sharp tug. It came free in his hand and he lifted it clear, tucking it away in one of his many pockets. His job done he faced the door of the wagon, pushing it open and jumping lightly to land on the searingly hot sands outside. He crouched on impact, perhaps the only sign his injury effected him in the slightest. As he straightened there were the sound of many guns being readied, from pistols to rifles. His eyes hidden by the brim of his hat, anyone could have seen the smile that played his lips.
"Woe unto you who would shoot me down. I take no prisoners in the war of Souls."
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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Kalanna Rai
Assassin for Hire
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Location: The Frozen North
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| Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2008 10:59 pm Post subject: |
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Please don't post in this thread. I'd love to hear all your comments, but give them to me HERE. Thank you!
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Chapter Four: Dust and Shadows
They had stood, to a man, frozen stock still at the single utterance of the gunman. He had walked through their immobile ranks like a man through a field of crosses, slowly raising a hand to his lips and letting forth a piercing whistle. It had been answered by a stallion's bugle, the single clariant call echoing over the shifting sands as a dark shape burst over the tops of some not so far off dunes. The black horse came to a prancing halt, nudging it's master in the manner of a beast eager to be off. The desert sunlight poured off it's hide as it would have poured off oil, dripping as thickly as honey.
The gunman slowly swung into the saddle, the wings of his jacket flowing back over the horse's rump as the toes of his boots found the stirrups. The stock of a rifle sat in easy reach of his right hand although all who stood in the ranks of this caravan had seen his accuracy with a simple handgun. None wanted to contemplate just how far the bullet of that rifle would go and what damage it would do upon reaching it's destination. The horse reared even though the gunman put no spurs to it's sides, indeed he wore no spurs at all. Then, with a scream of joyous fury, it charged off into the shifting sands, desert wind turning it's mane and tail into streaming banners of ebony silk.
They waited until the gunman had long faded over the horizon before they shuffled forward to survey the damage done. Gustav and Ingrane were reluctantly allowed to pass as the crowd of curious parted for them unwillingly. The pair turned sorrowing eyes upon the remains of their fellow healer, yet they sorrowed only for the loss of another set of skilled hands, not the woman herself. Somewhere, in the hearts of every man, woman, and child in that caravan, they were certain the woman had gotten what was coming to her.
The gunman, meanwhile, had not a spare thought for those of the caravan behind him. He sat easily upon his horse, moving in time with the creatures rolling rhythm. His hair sparkled in what sunlight reached it, his hat pulled low to shade his eyes. A twinge of pain flickered from the wound on his side occasionally but, as this could hardly be called hard riding, he was not in danger of ripping open the stitches a second time. The sands shifted under the hooves of his horse, the playful winds that followed them erasing the tracks mere moments later. The gunman drowsed, secure in the knowledge that no danger stalked him, no threat had him in it's sights, and let the horse go where it would.
The sun rose and set upon the pair three times, the horse walking tirelessly and the gunman with bowed head, thoughts unknown rambling through his mind. Three times the gunman brought his mount to a halt, pulling down the water skins that were lashed tight to his saddle and letting the beast drink freely from his upturned hat. He himself drank when he was thirsty, reaching down to pull a skin of lukewarm water to his lips, throat working as he tilted his head back and allowed the sun to blaze on his face. Then the skin would be replaced and the gunman's head would again fall forward into the position of a man slumbering astride his steed.
This time it wasn't the need for water but the change in terrain, the sound of the horses hooves echoing on rock and shale, that brought the gunman's head up. His eyes flicked across the horizon even as he gently tugged the reigns and brought his mount to a stop. Before him, spreading out like the ill-sewn patches of a child's first quilt, lay the scrub land at the edge of the desert. The horse snorted and twitched beneath him, nosing in the direction from which the wind came. The smell of water was strong, causing the gunman to lick his dry lips and urge the steed forward.
Loose rocks skittered and clacked under the horse's sure footed stride, the worst of the cracks in the ground neatly avoided. Midday found them working their way through a canyon alongside the river that flowed at the bottom, red rock walls rising like a pen to keep them contained. With a nicker, the horse came to a halt and the gunman gazed upwards to where a path was carved from the rock. "So this is the place." It wasn't an inquiry although he hadn't known this was where he was supposed to be until his horse had stopped. With a snort and a bob of it's head, the stallion began up the sloping path until it came to a cleared ledge before an opening in the rock.
Here the gunman dismounted and quickly set to work removing the tack from the black steed, loosening the girth and lifting the saddle clear in one jerk. He grunted as pain shot through his side, the saddle like lead in his hands as he bent and set it on the ground before pulling off the bridle as well. He quickly stripped the blanket off the stallion's back as well as the gunman's own gear. Rifle in hand, bedroll under arm, saddle and saddle bags over his shoulders, he strode into the darkness of the rock dwelling. With a shrill cry, the stallion turned back down the path with an almost dancing stride before racing off into the scrub without so much as a plume of dust to mark that it had ever passed that way.
The light seemed to dwindle and fade away to nothing not far from the opening, as if unwilling or unable to pierce the darkness of the rock dwelling. The gunman dropped the saddle and bags, leaning his rifle against the wall. With a few neat motions he removed the string securing the bedroll and spread it out on the floor of the cavern. Inside the folds of the heavy blankets were several shirts, some socks, and an extra pair of pants. Removing his hat and coat he hung them on jutting pieces of rock that seemed created for that sole purpose. Knowing his intentions here, who's to say that wasn't the truth.
He chose a shirt at random, they were all the same after all, and took a moment to gaze at the stitches on his side before pulling it over his head. Kicking off his boots and stripping off his socks, the last thing to go was the gun belt around his waist. That too hung next to hat and coat, the faintest whispers of light glinting from the casings on the cartridges. Fishing in his pockets, he removed several objects before striding barefoot into the heavy darkness of the deeper cave. Only the sound of his breathing echoed in this still place, the sound of his own heartbeat eclipsing any other.
Then, suddenly, light. A single beam of it shining down upon a pool of water from a circular crack in the ceiling of the cavern. Kneeling next to the pool, he spread the objects out on the ground before his knees. Seven wyrids of various spirits gleamed in the light, the last one on the left a Spider wyrid. It was the wyrid of the healer who would have poisoned him, just one more trophy now. The pool was incredibly still, the water undisturbed in all the ages it had taken to collect in this bowl shaped depression. The light infused every particle of it, until it shimmered and gleamed with some hidden intent.
Taking a deep breath, he reached forward and cupped some water in his hands, the liquid dribbling down his chin and throat when he drank. A shudder raced through his body, the world before his eyes seeming to bend and dance dangerously. Bowing his head, fists lightly clenched, he felt the first of the tremors rack his muscles. "Thy will be done."
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
Last edited by Kalanna Rai on Wed Mar 26, 2008 9:29 am; edited 2 times in total
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Kalanna Rai
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Location: The Frozen North
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| Posted: Sat Mar 22, 2008 12:12 am Post subject: |
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Please, post all thoughts and comments HERE. Thank you.
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Chapter Five: In High Company
It happened swiftly, it always did, the sudden separation of his spirit from it's fleshly housing. For a brief, brilliant instant, he was free. His wings churned the evanescent airs of the world between worlds, seven wyrids clutched in his raking talons as he let loose a scream of pure...hatred. The chains hit him suddenly, smashing him back to the ground with their weight. His feathers scattered as his wings snapped, his talons becoming the bloodied hands of a man again. Slowly he got to his feet, wyrids wrapped tightly around his wrists as he numbly walked forward, his own wyrid an anchor around his neck.
He left bloody footprints behind him, blood dripping from his eternally stained hands to fall in silent drops along his path. Slowly he climbed the steps into the presence of the Good Spirits, never once looking up at them as they came into view. They sat on high above him, a semi-circle of judgement from which seven sets of animalistic eyes watched him, daring him to lock gazes with them. He merely walked to the small raised pedestal that sat in the middle of their semi-circle and spread the seven wyrids out before them. Then, and only then, did he look up at them, blue eyes deceptively placid.
There was silence for a long while as the spirits took in the meager fruits of the gunman's labor. Cougar broke the silence with a displeased yowl. "Seven? What a pathetic number of wyrids to bring before us. What have you been doing with your time, I wonder, because you are surely not stalking your prey."
"Hasty words Cougar." Raven softly cawed. "These times have not been easy for him, can you not see the wounds he bears even now?" The soft words of the ebony feathered bird only enraged the sandy pelted cat more and it was only Elk's bellow that stopped more angry words from being exchanged.
"Hush you two! He has brought us seven still. That is seven less wyrided for our foes, seven less wreaking havoc upon the World. Some small gratitude we should extend him, some small praise."
"I don't want your pity Elk." The voice of the gunman caused seven heads to turn and regard him once more, harsh scrutiny indeed. But the gunman bore it as he had so many times before, hands resting easily by his sides. "If you think I have out-lived my usefulness why not simply breed me and be done with it? Force some other mother's son to carry on this curse and carry out your dirty work?"
Various enraged animal noises greeted him and he found the wyrid on his neck glowing fiercely, becoming like a stone. The intense weight upon his neck forced him first to bend low, then to kneel on one, then both knees. Finally it caused him to genuflect fully, placing his forehead on the ground. His hands still rested easily by his sides, his breathing still came in even inhales and exhales, his expression was still carefully blank. Above him Bear's gruff voice rumbled. "Upstart! You forget all we do for you! Without us, you would be nothing! You would have died long ago and would now rot in some nameless grave somewhere!"
"Better to rot in hell than be a slave in heaven." He said quietly, listening with satisfaction the silence that followed. "You think I am grateful and once I was. But we have continued this dance far too long for gratitude to remain. I'm no longer the awestruck youth that first agreed to do your bidding, answer your call, give up my life in service to you. I see now the exact terms of my service. All you give me you do not give to aid me...you give it so that I might do better the tasks you set before me. You seek a perfect weapon...you will not find it in me."
It was Hawk, normally silent and watchful Hawk, that spoke next. "You would break our contract then? You would sire an heir instead, to carry out the duties you no longer have heart for?"
"It isn't just my duties I no longer have heart for, I feel the pulse of the blood through my veins, but there is only a hollow feeling in my chest most days. Once I winced when I killed a man, all of you received my prayers for the departed on more than one occasion. Now..." as his words faded he gave a small laugh. Slowly the weight in his wyrid faded and he stood once more, mild gaze empty of any trace of thought.
The spirits conversed amongst themselves, words exchanged for grunts, yowls, whistles, clicks, and various other animal sounds. Sounds the gunman had no wish to decipher for himself. Then, with her clear and piercing gaze, Hawk turned to face him. "You say you feel hollow, we know how to remedy this. Return again to your form and your steed shall take you to the answer. You claim to be hollow...this is untrue. Bring no more false claims before us again. Should you do so, the contract will be broken most unpleasantly and you shall pay the remainder. Are we clear?"
"Crystal." He said, turning and walking back into the mists of the world between worlds before his wyrid ripped him downward, slamming him painfully back into his body. He was curled on the floor next to the pool like a babe new from the womb, his muscles tender and aching from being too long tensed. He was parched and barely managed to force his body to crawl to the edge of the pool, lowering his head like a common animal to swill the water noisily. At last, lifting his head like the feral beasts, he felt something close to his usual vigor return. Gently probing the wound on his side for pain, swelling, and tenderness, he got to his feet again and padded back to where his gear lay. He pulled on socks and boots, donned his coat and guns, and took his hat in one hand.
Settling back against his saddle, he set his hat at an angle over his eyes. Slowly, as if he had not a care in the world, the gunman dozed off to await the arrival of his errant black steed.
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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Kalanna Rai
Assassin for Hire
Joined: 21 Jan 2006
Topics: 173
Posts: 3102
Location: The Frozen North
Items
Legends
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| Posted: Wed Mar 26, 2008 9:03 am Post subject: |
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If you've got any comments on this story, any at all, I'd love to hear them. Just post them HERE. Thanks!
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Chapter Six: Waiting Game
The town had once been a pristine beauty, gleaming and bold, hugging her precarious perch on an island in the middle of a mighty river. She'd quickly out-grown her modest beginnings, putting forth bridges as she spread to the banks on both sides. Like a well bred lady smoothing her wide, ruffled skirts, she'd been a bastion of settlement in the unforgiving wilds. But, like any great lady, she'd aged and it hadn't been graceful.
Unsavory types had moved in, following the scent of money, raising hell of all kinds and driving out the sane population. Buildings had fallen in to disrepair, neglect ran rampant among the structures. Now the town was ramshackle and rundown, the once grand lady now a rotting husk of her former self. Masonry was crumbled where it hadn't been willfully destroyed, buildings gutted by fire or plagued with wood rot leaned like sway-back nags against each other for warmth. The outskirts had been abandoned almost entirely save where wary eyes watched from broken windows.
Many of the bridges had crumbled or become so rotted as to be unusable by those inclined to remain living. Only one remained in good repair, a stone expanse that connected the main street, with it's loose and missing cobbles, to either bank. It was on this stone expanse that the prancing steps of a black horse echoed, sparks flying from it's iron-shod hooves as they struck against the flinty surface. The eyes that watched did so from well within the shadows, whispers running rampant on the wind. The gunman had come to The Isle and his grim countenance threw a heavy shadow over the already shadowy town.
In the best saloon in town, a woman with beautiful blue eyes and golden ringlets piled high on her head fanned herself and smiled slyly at the gentlemen gambling and drinking. As warm whisky slid down throats rough with stubble, she and others like her fought silently to catch the eyes of the men with money in their pockets. She wasn't sure what had brought her to the Isle, perhaps it was the still cooling body of the last man she'd robbed? The femme fatal gave a private smile and fanned herself a little slower, realizing that none of the men in the room was interested in more than a shot of cheap liquor and a quick game of poker.
With all the elegance of a queen she stood and swept out of the dingy room, opening a delicate parasol before stepping out from under the saloon's awning and into the hot sunlight of the street. Taking care not to muss her dress, she headed for the general store to see if that new ribbon for her hair had arrived yet. Her timing could not have been more coincidental. No sooner had she left the street than the gunman's black steed swung onto it, casting a long dark shadow that chilled hearts more than it did flesh. The stallion's long, easy stride brought it to the door of the saloon where it stopped, craning it's head around to nudge it's rider.
Tipping back the brim of his hat, the gunman's gaze seared the structure, taking in ever slight detail. The cracked boards with their peeling paint, the sign too faded to be legible any longer to those lucky few of it's clientele that could read. The steps were cracked, the railing broken, and the windows no longer covered in too expensive glass. Why bother when the next fight would only see somebody flying through the recently replaced panes? "This place? Surely they do not expect whisky, women, and a winning hand to make me feel again."
The stallion tossed it's head, hooves firmly planted, snorting in the manner of a beast unlikely to budge. Slowly the gunman swung out of the saddle and walked up the sagging steps, boards creaking and cracking alarmingly under his weight. He opened the door casually and it was a testament to the self involvement of all within that it took several minutes for silence to envelope the room. Drinkers drank, ladies flirted, and cheaters cheated until someone looked up and gasped. Like dominoes, eyes flicked to the form in the doorway and froze, hearts speeding up and prayers hastily said to spirits half-believed in by men who'd never prayed a day in their lives.
The gunman's gaze raked the room, waiting for that something to tell him that he'd found what he had been sent to find. But there was nothing. He felt the ill deeds done by all in the room, felt the murders committed, the beatings administered, the robberies and con jobs, the broken hearts and emptied pockets. He felt the good deeds, done by men too rough to ever admit that they'd happened, the only things keeping them from being the next target on the other end of his gun.
He realized he'd have to wait, striding over to a chair in the corner, sinking into it and putting his feet up on the table before him. From his vantage he could easily see the door and anyone coming through it. It was a prime spot, hastily vacated by a group of thugs when they saw him coming. They stood, perplexed and nervous, for a moment before shoving some bandits out of their spot. And so it went, down the pecking order, until everyone was rearranged. The gunman tipped his hat forward over his eyes, hiding them and their purposeful stare from the room. The tension mounted to the breaking point and past, weighing down on everyone but that solitary figure in black.
Then, suddenly, someone reached their breaking point. "Hey Mister! What are you doing here?"
It took a moment for the gunman to reply in a quiet voice. "Waiting."
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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