AmongHeroes

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Stay cool, Hellis! It's been a scorcher here as well.

Derren, you're as reliable as the North Star. No worries at all, my friend. Hope your weekend is more forgiving.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

With eyes anew, Atticus awoke to the world. Above, the stars shone with a supernatural brilliance, at first appearing only as blurred spots in the inky indigo of early morn, until at last the incubus’ focus drew them into fiery points of light. Blinking, he took stock of himself.

There was feeling in his limbs. His fingers, his wings, his tail; they all tingled with the sensation of life. With slow, intentional care, Atticus lifted his right hand before his vision, and peered at his flesh. Skin that had once shone bright crimson, now appeared only as a dull onyx smudge against the stars that silhouetted the hand. Puzzled, Atticus turned his hand about, his eyes squinting with realization that he no longer possessed the only color his demonic skin had ever known.

The infernal essence of Hell itself had changed the incubus, that much was apparent. As the fury of the netherworld had channeled its way through him, his very essence had evolved. As he focused on it now, Atticus could feel this shift, like a caterpillar emerging at last from its chrysalis. He was born again, different, yet inherently the same; an incubus, a demon, yet even more.

This born again demon came to reality then. He gasped, sitting up from the warm earth as his mind flooded with the recent memory of Fenris’ demise, and the valiant effort to save the world from the god wolf’s final act of destruction. He looked about, his eyes obsidian orbs with pupils of burning yellow, searched the sundered landscape.

His gaze found the scarlet brilliance of Veti, the angelic beauty of Gabriel, but no immediate sign of any of the other Bain & Hoyle members revealed themselves to him.

“Siya…?” Atticus called out, his voice at first a whisper. He spoke again, and yet again, his call raising in volume and urgency. “Siya? Siya!? Where are you?”

The incubus’ voice cracked as he made his way to his feet. Black wings, healed and grand trailed behind him as he stumbled about the rubble of Ardgroom.

“Siya!” He yelled. A single black, almost oil-like tear traced the line of his cheek.

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas snorted at Jax’s quip about the Skate’s justification for jealousy. “Aye, indeed she may.” His eyes drifted up towards Antonia who was making her way down the rigging, seemingly on a mark to intercept the busy First Mate. A smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Verily, she might feel the need to toss me to the sharks after last night.”

He opened his arms to the sea-artist just as the man began his course change. “She’ll forgive me,” Thomas said, kicking at the worn wood of the deck as if challenging the Dusk Skate to do otherwise. “This fine lady knows she will always hold a special place in my heart. I’m sure you can attest to such, eh?”

“As for unrequited interest, it’s a tale I think every man has known at least once in his life.” Thomas gave Jax a friendly, if questioning gaze. The man had been more forthcoming with his company in the past hours and days then Thomas had yet seen, and the pirate captain wondered just what had prompted such a change. Thomas’ eyes drifted towards where the First Mate stood across the deck, and narrowed as his mind ticked like clockwork.

The thought of Jax chasing after the affections of Nicolette was an innocently pleasant exercise for Thomas. With the First Mate, Thomas had perhaps glimpsed through the woman’s veil, be he certainly had never pierced it. The mysterious and capricious woman was an enigma, and if anyone could plot her course, Jax seemed like a man eccentrically gifted enough to do so.

“This woman whose gaze you seek…” Thomas said, casting a sideways glance to Jax. He paused, thinking to inquire after the identity of the man’s desires. Instead Thomas merely smiled. “Forgive me,” he said. “I will not pry. Perhaps at a later time, and accompanied by a tankard of kill devil, we can more justly trade truths about the fairer sex?”

Thomas fell silent as Jax went about his work to reorient the Skate onto its new course. He knew the man would answer when he could, and so Thomas left his proposition hanging in the warm sea air.

Thomas turned his attention to the crew as the worked the halyards and blocks to reorient the sails for the new course. Nicolette directed the men in their work with efficient and consummate skill, and Thomas afforded himself a slight smile. There was something of primal gratification in watching a ship under sail respond to the will of those that worked her. Thomas felt the urge to leave the aft castle and jump into the rigging with his men to toil and haul at the lines, but he forced the thought from his mind.

As the ship fell at last into its tack, and the sailors began to climb down from the stations for a much deserved break, Thomas looked back to Jax.

“Do you ever miss it?” Thomas said, “The work in the rigging I mean? I'll admit that I often do.”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Hey there, Inuyasha!
Thank you for your interest. It's always wonderful to have people want to join. As Igraine said, however, we're just about to finish this episode of Pieces of 8. I plan to do another in the future, and you would be more than welcome to join.

As for everyone else, thanks for all the great posts lately. Work has had me by the toe this week, but I will get something up for Atticus today. How is everyone today? Doing well, I hope.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Like its creator, the orb was being assailed by the combined power of many. The destructive intent of its existence was being rebuffed by the will of ancient blood, the fury of Hell itself, the very magic of the deceased god-wolf, the lamenting song of primordial rivers, and the devouring might of a fire-demon’s indomitable fortitude. All of this coalesced into a force too overwhelming for the instrument of death.

Shrouded in black smoke, pierced with tendrils of magic and crackling energy, the orb began to shake violently. What began as a tremor as the fire-demon pierced the heart of the orb, grew in exponential strength with each passing second. The quaking transferred itself through the bodies of those small beings that bore it up, and in turn the earth around them began to tremble.

Flashes of irregular green light began to issue from the surface of the orb, arcing outward like angry fingers of flailing despair. Pulses of the orbs internal energy sprayed outward, carrying with them some of the magic and smoke that enveloped it, until the sky was obscured by the ethereal roil. Lightning cascaded down like rain from the black clouds, and thunder roared in a ceaseless cacophony of vengeful booms. The whole scene was a window into the end-times, a glimpse at the death of the cosmos when all hope had failed, and all the gods possessed no further will to sustain its existence.

Then, at the culmination of this Armageddon, the orb collapsed upon itself. Silence, utter and total quiet, burst from the imploding sphere. It blew outward with a force almost perceptible to those nearby, as not even the sound of one’s own heart could be heard within their ears. The orb diminished to a tiny ball, fiercely bright, and hotter than all the furnaces of the underworld. This wave of heat followed the silence, oppressing and all-consuming, stealing the very air from the lungs that were caught in its path.

Behind the heat came the last, and final song of the orb. Like a star in its last throes of death, the tiny, bright, and compact orb exploded outwards. All its light, all its baleful energy, spewed forth in a beautiful wave of sparkling brilliance. The silence and the heat were stolen away from the world, vanishing with the command of the light. The darkness of smoke and magic that had once shrouded the orb were thrust away as well, ripping open the sky to reveal a crystal-clear night above.

The stars shown downward amidst a sea of deep blue and indigo. Nothing remained of the orb. No trace of its intended destruction could be seen to mark the world, and those that had banished it were left free of any effects from its final and tremendous demise.

Of the god-wolf, Fenris, nothing remained, save one thing. The giant body that the god’s soul had left behind was nowhere to be seen, and only a faint outline of scorched earth demarked where it had lain. The blood and gore that had covered the vampiress was gone, and the fallen obsidian fur had all burnt into oblivion. All this had vanished, yet, clutched still in the hand of the crimson-wolf, a single, onyx tooth remained.

In the crystal night air, nothing is yet heard in the moment of new peace. No cries of pain or suffering, no lingering echo of string or horn, no raspy sound of breath or beat. Simply nothing. Unlike the lack of sound that the orb had called forth at its death, this silence is comforting and warming. For a time this blanket envelopes the world in its calm; a gentle reassurance that the end of all did not come to pass.

Then, from a silhouette high overhead, its outline only discernable as its path blocks the light of the stars, a single call of an eagle is heard. This stark cry ends the silence, heralding victory to all those among the realm of the living.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

How are we all doing today? Such great posts recently, and hopefully more soon to come.

Has anyone seen the new Planet of the Apes?

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

The crew stirred their task of setting the Dusk Skate to sail with alacrity, pouring over the ship in a chaotic orchestra of bent backs and grunted effort. Thomas strode amongst the men, directing when needed, but his words were often as not superfluous in such moments. Those that called the Skate there home were skilled and driven sailors, they didn’t need the captain to hold their hands to get a ship to sea.

Amongst the flurry of activity his eye was drawn up to the rigging, where a flash of white caught his attention. There, dangling with the confidence of a spider within its web, was Antonia. She was dressed in her usual sea-faring garb, and Thomas thought that the simplistic fabrics and humble trappings contrasted to make her beauty all the more dramatic. Tucked in beside her bright face was the lily that he had left her, and a smile drew up the corners of the captain’s mouth. He gave a slight bow at the offer of her blown kiss, his gaze promising a visit to the crow’s nest when the chance arose.

Thomas left Antonia to her work, moving from beneath the main mast and towards the fore castle. The Dusk Skate cut smartly through the calm waters of Port Royal Harbor, passing first the guns of Fort Walker, and then the more formidable battery of Fort Charles off to port. Jax had the ship on a masterful tack; Thomas could feel it in the eager tilt of the keel as the Skate latched selfishly onto the slight, but favorable morning breeze.

“Beg pardon, Captain,” said a voice from behind Thomas.

The pirate captain turned from his viewing of the ship’s bow, and found Henshaw standing with the boy, Luc.

“Yes?”

“The Lef-tenant wished me to bring this boy to ya,” Henshaw said. “She said you would know wha’ to do wif him.”

Thomas looked down into the awed face of the boy. His expression was innocent and pleasant, every bit a child in place he had only yet dreamt of. A twinge of sadness came to Thomas as he recognized the emotion. It would not last, and truthfully it could not, even if Thomas wished it to. The boy was here as a means to save his life, but Thomas could not protect him from the harsh reality aboard a pirate ship. Lessons were taught with stern consequences, even for cabin boys.

“Very good, Henshaw. I will take him from here.” Thomas said.

Henshaw grunted an “Aye,” before turning to return to his work.

Bending down to one knee, Thomas looked into Luc’s eyes. He did not offer the boy a smile as he had done in the Parakeet. The pirate captain kept his face neutral, yet not unkind.

“Luc, it is good to have you aboard,” Thomas glanced upwards towards the crow’s nest, though he could not see Antonia. “You must understand that being here will be nothing like your life at the Parakeet.”

“Oh, I know Capitaine, I will…” Luc interrupted, a smile jumping upon his face. Thomas raised a firm hand to quiet the boy.

“Luc,” Thomas said with a voice harsher than he had intended, “do not interrupt those above your station.” With a slow exhalation through his nose, Thomas forced himself to smooth the edges of his voice. He reached up to take the boy by his shoulders.

“Your first lesson, my boy, is to know your place. This ship, and every vessel like it, operates on hierarchy. There is an order of things, you see? And right now, you are at the bottom. The sailors around you have all earned their place here, and in their eyes you must do the same. Follow instructions without quibble, and do so promptly.”

Luc nodded, the awestruck look draining from his face.

“I will have you report to Mister Morneau, he is the ship’s cook. With your experience in the Parakeet, this should be at least somewhat familiar to you,” Thomas continued. He spun the boy gently about, and pointed over Luc’s shoulder towards the stairway that led below decks. “Those stairs will take you below, and into the ship’s belly. Travel down them, past the gun deck, and there you will find the galley and storage area. Mister Morneau will be below, going about his work. Find him and tell him that I have sent you to work under him.”

Thomas stood and patted Luc gently upon his head. “It may be some time before your aunt or I can come to check up on you, but until then keep your chin up. You’ll do fine if you work hard, and keep quiet.”

With a thin smile, Thomas pressed gently upon the boy’s back. “Off with you now.”

Luc darted off, looking over his shoulder once to Thomas, and then up to the rigging as he passed beneath where Antonia stood at her post, high above. Thomas hoped the boy had caught a glimpse of her, if for no other reason than to gain solace from her distant face. He watched Luc until he disappeared down the steps, and then Thomas turned his attention elsewhere.

He walked back along the starboard rail of the ship, looking out to sea, and inspecting the rigging of the sails as he moved passed them. Thomas soon found himself at the aft castle, not far from the helm, and the indelible figure of Jax. When the man called to him, speaking of the debt for the shirt, Thomas chuckled.

“The only debt you owe me is a tale of what transpired last night. Stories are sometimes more valuable than a purse of gold, and I sense that this could be the case.”

Jax continued on about the nature of the Skate, and Thomas nodded his agreement.

“Aye, she can be a jealous girl, can she not?” Thomas reached out to run a hand over the warm wood of the aft castle railing. “She may give you some pique at first, but I’m sure after a time beneath your skilled hands she’ll be wooed once again.”

Thomas fell silent for a time, looking out over the port quarter of the Skate. He could clearly see the distinct indentation of the land that made what was known as Monkey Bay. This was point Thomas had been waiting for, the landmark to truly begin their journey.

“Jax,” he said turning to the sea artist, “Bring us about. We tack south towards Panama. Once we are in open water, I will address the crew.”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Atticus groaned, pushing himself painfully up from the broken ground. Since Veti had flung him at the white wolf, the whole world had been a blur. Broken, bleeding, and completely disoriented, Atticus could not comprehend his surroundings or begin to know if his friends were alive or dead.

With eyes clouded with debris and the haze of nausea, Atticus scanned the world around him. As far as he could see, crags of shattered earth and rock protruded at unnatural angles, rising up towards a sky that was an eerie amalgamation of black, grey, and shifting green.

Green? Atticus thought, distantly recognizing the abnormal nature of such a color in the sky.

His mind began to clear, and comprehension slowly began to return to the incubus. He realized that all he could see was bathed in the bright, unnerving green color, as if the whole night was being illuminated by a flickering neon sign. Reality struck home, borne upon the emerald light, and a maelstrom of thoughts rushed into Atticus’ mind.

The white-wolf.

Ragnarök.

Fenris.

A cry, piercing with notes of desperation, and tragically distinct, met his ears. Atticus’ eyes widened in horror, and he spun about with agonizing quickness.

Siya!

There, perched upon the mountainous corpse of the god-wolf, was the tiny vampire. Coated with thick crimson gore, she stood like Atlas, pressing her tiny frame against the crackling green orb that dwarfed her almost to the point of invisibility.

“Siya, no!” Atticus yelled to her.

Without thought his feet began to move. Shattered though he was, the incubus began to charge across the riven ground towards where Siya stood in torment. Atticus unfurled torn wings, ignoring the lightning strikes of pain that shot through his body. With each new step, he flapped and jumped skywards, crying out as if the exclamation would itself carry him into flight.

A final grunt, and a last valiant effort of will propelled the incubus from the ground. From his wings, raindrops of blood fell from the many wounds, yet still he flew. With each pulse of his muscles, a haze of black rimmed his vision, threatening to strip him of his consciousness. Atticus fought through it, calling upon every ounce of infernal power to keep his mind anchored in the terrible plane that was reality.

Distantly, as he careened towards Siya, Atticus realized that in his current state he could offer no help to his love. When he reached her, if he tried to ease Siya’s burden in his natural body, he would be utterly destroyed by the malevolent power of the green ball. He was no god, and he had no means to assimilate a god’s divine resilience as Siya had. Yet, as he passed over the dead hulk of Fenris, Atticus knew what he must do.

With an ungraceful lift to his wings, Atticus landed hard upon the corpse. He skidded towards Siya in a tangle of blood and fiery-red flesh. Stopping near her feet, Atticus scrambled up from the bed of thick fur, and lifted his head. Though, what looked up into the vampire’s face was not the Atticus she would have recognized.

Onyx tendrils, like rancorous ink, cascaded from around the incubus’ mouth and eyes. It bled over his skin, blotting out the red, and replacing it only with the stain of black. As his flesh transformed, his eyes dimmed from their bright crimson into pits of darkness, until in a sudden flash of dull orange, they ignited like chunks of burning coal.

Thick, chocking black smoke began to pour from Atticus’ eyes and mouth. It billowed upwards, smelling of scorched flesh and brimstone, as it gushed upward towards the green orb. When the smoke met the energy ball, it flowed across it, enveloping the lower hemisphere in its acrid curls until all of that portion was completely obscured. More smoke rose from Atticus, issuing forth from his very pores as if they were chimney stacks, impossibly thick, and noxiously potent.

Like the smoldering demon he now was, Atticus rose up fully. He placed himself beside Siya, and he pressed upwards with all his might against the orb. Hell itself channeled through Atticus, the incubus acting as a living conduit for the power of the underworld. The ethereal smoke buoyed up the ball, easing the burden upon the vampire and the demon.

Even in spite of the mighty strength of the vampiress, and the malignant will of Hell itself, the orb’s destructive advance had only been slowed. It was only a matter of time before the vampire’s strength failed, and the demon’s body could channel no more of the Devil’s fury, and was banished into oblivion.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Such a great post, LT! I hate to do this everyone, but I'm totally calling dibs on the next post. Yes, the GM is throwing his weight around! Forgive my tyranny...

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Thunder cracked and roared overhead. The enormous sphere of baleful energy sizzled, tearing into the night sky with ever more ferocious vigor. Each new bolt of green lightning that struck it was a massive finger that touched from the clouds, adding fury to the ball with each new explosive concussion.

Fenris, the god-wolf of destruction, stood beneath this roiling emerald orb. His maw agape, holding the ball of energy as if his teeth were some grotesque setting of a ring, and the ball was the gem. The green light reflected into his eyes, the obsidian pupils dancing like electric mirrors to the instrument of destruction held at his muzzle.

This was to be the moment. Fenris could feel it, could sense that his time had come to erase the world at his feet, and usher in the era of his own making. He had upset the prophecy of Ragnarök. His coming, early and chaotic, had thrown off the balance that was to follow. The Æsir were helpless now. Odin, Thor, Víðarr; none of them could fall from the heavens to stop him. The flow of destiny had been shifted, like a boulder planted in the heart of a river, and it would never flow the same again.

It was then, as the great god was about to release his weapon and fulfill his new destiny, that he heard the sharp bite of whistle at his feet, followed by words of power and menace. The black eyes glanced earthward, affixing upon a tiny creature bathed in an ethereal darkness more profound than even the god-wolf had ever seen. Her words struck him as so pitifully useless, like the bray of a dying beast at the jaws of its hunter. Yet, it was in that instant that he felt a sensation.

Pain.

And it was a pain unlike any the celestial beast had felt in all its long years. In antithesis to the anguish he experienced while holding the great sword in his mouth, or the agony of the tightness of his bindings, this new pain came from within. It felt like a white-hot spike had been driven into one of his hind legs, and from it, fire seemed to radiate through his veins. Amidst the pain, Fenris perceived another strange sensation, that of fatigue, diminishment, and a sickening lethargy that felt as if his very essence was oozing forth from the apex of his wound.

Dazzled with confusion and a now dominating grip of torture, Fenris didn’t see the coming of the shadowy vampiress as she leapt towards him. Her body, incarnate with his own power, perforated his flesh, and riddled him like a ebony needle. A cry, so strange and foreign from such a mighty figure, bubbled up from his throat, and cracked the air no less than thunder.

Then the Promethean struck. A fiery demon of ancient hells thrust downward upon the god-wolf’s ball of destruction. Weakened and under assault, Fenris roared with disbelief and agonizing rage. How could this have come to pass? Flashing staccatos of doubt and hatred filled the mind of the god, even as the reality of his doom pressed ever farther towards him.

The ball of energy strained against the burning will of the demon above, and the faltering god-wolf beneath. It seemed to contort and shift, straining against the powers of the two unholy titans that ensconced it. Fenris’ inky eyes widened in horror, just as a flurry of angelic lead perforated his weakened flesh, just behind his ears.

For a seemingly eternal moment, the god-wolf stood there. The expression of pain and astonishment slackened off of the wolfish face of the god of destruction, until at last the jaws went limp. They fell then, like two pillars of flesh thrust from their foundations, toppling downward towards the Irish countryside. As Fenris’ jaws fell, the legs gave way, and with a sound like a roll of crashing breakers, the god-wolf plummeted from his mighty stance.

When he struck the ground, Fenris’ body shook the earth. No mightier a quake had befallen the emerald isles, and in all directions a wave of broken land cascaded out from the epicenter of the god-wolf’s corpse.

The green, and crackling ball of death, once suspended in limbo between the Promethean and the Rökkr, was now free of its bonds. Pressed downward by the fire demon, it plummeted towards its maker’s dead body with the fury of vengeance as its engine. Though the god that had brought the terrible weapon into the realm of the living no longer occupied the plane, it mattered not. Its purpose and might still existed, and if it struck the Earth, even in spite of the god-wolf’s dire failure, those who had won their victory would not live to see the coming dawn.