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| Contemptful Reckoning; Disillusion, Closed | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 22 2008, 05:23 PM (421 Views) | |
| Deleted User | May 22 2008, 05:23 PM Post #1 |
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Would it have been better to be back on that cross? It was a question that kept plaguing his mind each time he thought out the plan. Well, the parts of the plan that he knew more like. Wessix had given him nothing and demanded everything, practically all but enslaving the elder reject from the Alastair family. His loathing for the newest master was only calmed by the voice of Terra, the spirit of Gaia that had spent twenty long years waiting to hear from him again. Sleiv, as he now was called, could only lament his past so much with Terra's promise of a brighter future. Besides that, Wessix was not the first to spit on him, humble him or even take pride in torturing him. That was why he'd been pinned to a cross for twenty years to begin with. Perhaps it ought to be explained why Sleiv Alastair was so insincerely treated all those years ago. Before that, he held not only a position in the Alastair family, but a real name. 'Sleiv' had been a knight of Red Claw, quickly advancing toward taking his place in a council chair. He and his brother held a race of sorts in order to determine whom deserved the chair more. The trick was simple, use magic to find a way around death. At first Sleiv had tried resurrection through fire, a self activated freeze point spell to cryogenicly store oneself... even bounding himself to the spirits of the earth in attempt to rise again from the grave. Holy and Dark arts were forbidden to Red Claw for the most part, but these were what Sleiv studied next. Technically, so long as an individual has a spirit that can be guided to a functional body, one is not dead. The Dark arts taught one how to divide their spirit amongst people and objects for greater control. Sleiv merely combined those two thought lines, severing parts of himself all over the world in bones, then using the magics of earth and light to in effect heal the spirit and place regrowth spells upon the bones. Next, a trace scry spell was cast on each of these 'clones,' so that each new spirit would instantly download the knowledge of the previous body while springing to life. Finally, an order line was burned through all the bones, making sure only one new clone would come to life at a time. Over a thousand bones had been used, then placed and hidden about the world. Sleiv revealed his mastery over life and death after the hiding process was complete, but his fellow spell swords did not take it so well. They called him a Necromancer, a demon, but calling was not all they did. A hunt was started for him, one that led to quite a few battles that Red Claw lost. Even if they did win against the sorcerer, he merely died and then resurrected fresh (and far away). The cross had been his defeat not out of power, but out of sheer knowledge. Trinis Alastair II, proper son of the Alastair family, shattered his soul before pinning the body to the cross. Thanks to the weaves of null magic, when Sleiv's body died that small chunk of his soul remained. Twenty years of the truest death, neither knowing heaven or hell. That was what Sleiv had endured. If Wessix had allowed him, Sleiv's first move would have been to attack the Alastair family directly. Alas, a plot had been woven, a story that the pawns needed to follow. The ancient being had promised to restore his soul completely if Sleiv followed the plans. As apposed to fighting Wessix, Sleiv agreed and had been gratefully reintroduced to the spirit Terra. She had told him of an ally willing to help, a man who's life had also been destroyed by Red Claw. So here he stood in the garden, staring at the flowers beneath his feet and all around, merely waiting for some sign of life. Sleiv had not bothered to get new clothing, his old red duelist jacket was still dirty and torn to all hell. His hair was still long and matted, running just below the shoulders even with tangled brown curls. A beard covered his skin from chin to chin, but that along with his finger nails had been trimmed. The rest of his clothing an appearance was just as tattered, almost as though part of him wasn't really alive at all. There was one token that deserved mention, a glittering rapier tied into his sword belt with no sheath. It held a slight curve and a wicked double edge, but perhaps the most noticeable attribute was the blade itself was tempered black steel with a single trail of gold running down the center.. The hilt was a crimson leather covered by a guard that looked more of a folded wing then anything else. This blade was the proof of Wessix's promises, the reason why the rejected Alastair stood here in the garden now. "I certainly hope you can hear me Mr. Green, because I need your help. If you could come out, I would be honored to discuss that vengeance the world tells me you long for." Speaking to flowers was normally useless, but this was the Gardener's territory. Things could be heard here that might not be heard elsewhere. |
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| Willhelm the Werewolf | Jun 3 2008, 02:04 AM Post #2 |
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“What the heck do you want?” He grumbled to the bechevelled man as his head came out of the foliage of one of the many trees in the surrounding area, and at a good twenty feet above the grass-line. The yellow gunk in his sorely-needing-sleep eyes got wiped out with a paw-like swipe. Sleep had not been coming to him, here or in a bed. His pack felt distant, or maybe Greg felt distanced from his pack. Sleep just didn’t happen at his place, and apparently he couldn’t sleep in the woods, or the gardens, either. When he slept in trees, he usually slept in the boughs of thick sturdy oaks, maples, and the like—like when he was a kid and when he was a student. It made him feel better then, then when he was a pre-bit ogre, but now it just made him feel like even more out of place, alone. Monkeys slept in trees, the wolf in him reminded him. And Greg agreed that humans, meta or not, were more or less hairless monkeys. When he was a monkey he could sleep in a tree. He was, is, and forever will be a wolf, a member of a furry mass of asleep bodies in some hollowed log or a hole in a ground. Despite wanting to crawl in a hole, there was something missing: he was alone. A wolf without his pack; frightened. But no matter how much time he spent with Sazuki, Issac, Ena, Harker, or anyone else, he felt more and more alone. Something told him he was missing something. Before the strange man could explain himself (failing any form of blurting) Greg’s head disappeared back into the greenery leaving only a whisper of rustling leaves as quick as his head had came out of it. Not a second passed by when his body came barrowling over his tree-branch-bed as a gymnast does during a bar routine. There hung Greg; a seven-foot tall man who had the aura, and tail, of an agitated predator and the body of the grand-child of a Paul Bunion. Anyone who knew Greg would notice however that his clothes were threadbare, his body smelt like he hadn’t showered in a very long while, and his hair was matted all more so than normal. He hung there for a few seconds taking a darn good look over the red-clothed man. The sword stuck out the most, particularly under the new school rules. The idea that this man’s origins were, a red talon or claw would stick out, the clothing meant nothing to him, and truth be told it made perfect sense that this man was grubbier than he was. After all, why not? Weapon or not, he trusted him. He dropped the remaining seven feet to the ground, whatever damage healed immediately. One foot on the ground, one knee on the ground, kneeling like a knight before his lord. The grass on the path rustled slightly. He sniffed the air, sniffed him out, and growled slightly. It wasn’t intentional and it wasn’t loud, but he felt unsettled. That familiar smell of death, of unlife, hung on him; rather it wasn’t so much the smell, but the ghost of a smell, the little part of his brain that usually made him want convulse wanted to tingle (though Greg wouldn’t convulse unless he was standing near the next bone during the act of death). No Greg didn’t hold it against him, many people had that sense of death on them, he just thought that he was a bit different (like every other person on campus). His alpha even had that smell from time time, so he didn’t think much of it. Greg stood up, lifting himself off the grass, and stared him down from a good little while away. He liked him, and he disliked him, but he sensed a dangerous will in him. This didn't scare him in the slightest. And despite Greg’s average intelligence, Greg knew he had very few enemies, fewer still that required vengeance. Greg’s stoic nature, cracked into a toothy grin. His eyes flared a devilish green. Vengeance would be his. |
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