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Henryk
Looks like I’ll have to get my hands dirty, ‘sppose that’s what you get for making deal with this sort. The theory of magic wasn’t his strong suit; he’d studied what he could, but wrapping his head around the more abstract stuff was tricky, and there wasn’t even much concrete to go on – mana and its uses were awfully nebulous. That left him as one of the “combat-capable”. I just hope you're right Al, otherwise I’m not letting you go.
A muffled sigh escaped past Henryk’s hand. Alma’s competitive streak was notorious. Never had he known anyone else who thought that eleven minutes was a notable amount of time, but Alma had lorded her miniscule seniority over him since they first learnt to speak. Well, now I can’t just blow it off, can I? Great. He ran a hand through his hair and completed the high-five with his other. His eyes held a further message, We’ll win, sister dearest, don’t worry; I’ll do everything I can to make sure you do.
The tirade from the willowy man, Lukas he had introduced himself as, made Henryk chuckle slightly. Didn’t have him pinned as a religious crazy, but I like the cut of his gib.
“Maybe we can test that faith of yours sometime?” Henryk muttered, scratching his chin, “Something tells me you’d made a good drinking buddy.”
Then it was over. Judith made her exit, quickly followed by the fidgety looking woman that must have been Akyna. Guess she’s laser-focussed. Henryk shrugged. The post-meeting hub-bub began to swell. He got up behind his sister’s chair and leaned on it with both arms. Greece could wait; right now there was a certain victory-hungry missus who needed to be sated.
“Dear sister,” he said from behind with a solemn face and monotone register, “Remember it’s just a game, yeah? Don’t get too carried away, this is supposed to bring us all closer.”
Then he leant in and squished his face next to hers, and a crooked smile cracked his façade, “And besides, we’ll hand ‘em their asses.” Henryk straightened up again and rested his hands on her shoulders.
“Hey Alia,” He said, waving at the girl dressed up like she was a court magician from some Dumas novel. Never thought a cape could look so good.
“Why don’t you talk shop with my sister here,” He said, pinching Alma’s cheeks, “She doesn’t bite,” then he winked, “Much.”
He began walking off, “Al, I’m going to our room to change, knock before coming in, if you do.” And he made his exit, snatching up his jacket and throwing it over his shoulder.
Henryk
An air conditioning unit’s echoing hum could be heard in the meeting room from some far-off hidden recess. Despite this, Henryk had draped his jacket over the back of his chair and loosened his tie. The top button of his shirt was also undone, revealing more of his trailing tattoo. His cheeks seemed flusher than usual, but only Alma could possibly notice this. Apart from those, no obvious signs of discomfort showed.
After the hushed chatter and acquaintance making, Alma handling most of this for him, Judith began talking.
For the duration of the brief presentation he sat, reclined in his chair, away from the table, one leg resting by its ankle across his other knee. His gloves rested in his lap. He kept his face purposefully blank, a cold slab of granite, and allowed his vision to sweep across the room and its occupants with bored languor. His eyes were flints.
When it was done, he raised an eyebrow at Alma, as if to say, Can you believe this shit? And the semblance of a smile actually made its way across his face; a vein of silver in an otherwise daunting rock wall.
He would save his questions for last, waiting for the others to hopefully ask them for him.
An air conditioning unit’s echoing hum could be heard in the meeting room from some far-off hidden recess. Despite this, Henryk had draped his jacket over the back of his chair and loosened his tie. The top button of his shirt was also undone, revealing more of his trailing tattoo. His cheeks seemed flusher than usual, but only Alma could possibly notice this. Apart from those, no obvious signs of discomfort showed.
After the hushed chatter and acquaintance making, Alma handling most of this for him, Judith began talking.
For the duration of the brief presentation he sat, reclined in his chair, away from the table, one leg resting by its ankle across his other knee. His gloves rested in his lap. He kept his face purposefully blank, a cold slab of granite, and allowed his vision to sweep across the room and its occupants with bored languor. His eyes were flints.
When it was done, he raised an eyebrow at Alma, as if to say, Can you believe this shit? And the semblance of a smile actually made its way across his face; a vein of silver in an otherwise daunting rock wall.
He would save his questions for last, waiting for the others to hopefully ask them for him.
In
Dawn of The Coming Storm (Co-GMed with Eklispe this time!)
→
7 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Interested.
Stormy
The mask looked at her. A roiling sea of fathomless depths in a solid form. Perhaps there was a slight blue glow, the merest aureole. Stormy brought her hand up to touch her temple, wincing. The aura vanished.
Then she close to threw the mask at the ground. The hand that had been holding the semblance began stretching and clenching, the other rubbing that hand's wrist. Blue looked up from the grass, tillers and blades cloying around - eager and envious. Was it frowning now?
“Xi?” Stormy asked the ground, before turning to Koda, running her slender, branching fingers through the tangled nest on her hand, “Is that its name? I don’t quite understand you, sugar.”
The whole circus was performing, but Stormy’s spotlight was focused only on Koda. She let out a deep sigh, and seemed to deflate, her small frame almost vanishing inside her clothes.
“Sweetie pie, you look like you need to lie down, do you want to take five and clear your head?”
The azure puddle hid in the grass. The unseen pull of it made her hand twitch, but she either didn’t notice, or ignored the tic.
The mask looked at her. A roiling sea of fathomless depths in a solid form. Perhaps there was a slight blue glow, the merest aureole. Stormy brought her hand up to touch her temple, wincing. The aura vanished.
Then she close to threw the mask at the ground. The hand that had been holding the semblance began stretching and clenching, the other rubbing that hand's wrist. Blue looked up from the grass, tillers and blades cloying around - eager and envious. Was it frowning now?
“Xi?” Stormy asked the ground, before turning to Koda, running her slender, branching fingers through the tangled nest on her hand, “Is that its name? I don’t quite understand you, sugar.”
The whole circus was performing, but Stormy’s spotlight was focused only on Koda. She let out a deep sigh, and seemed to deflate, her small frame almost vanishing inside her clothes.
“Sweetie pie, you look like you need to lie down, do you want to take five and clear your head?”
The azure puddle hid in the grass. The unseen pull of it made her hand twitch, but she either didn’t notice, or ignored the tic.
Stormy
The ghost girl’s voice was frosty iron and she became a sheer cliff-face. Stormy seemed to flinch at her own name. Shrivelled breaths filled her lungs, frail, withered things. Her chest rose and fell faster, almost imperceptibly, but not quite.
Stormy looked down at her blue boon. Her face became a canvas for her emotions to paint across; thick oils sculpting her brow, tremulous water colours detailing her quivering lips, everything running across in a fluid, technicolour medley that reflected her tumultuous heart.
When the Rebel spoke, a smile toyed at the corners of Stormy’s lips, and she watched her, with head titled to one side. Stormy remained silent, during the back and forth, following the dirt road with her eyes until it vanished.
Then the changes came. She watched as the tearful Rebel put on the mask, and then… then Stormy was not sure what happened, but she watched aghast all the same, fingers hovering over her slack mouth. The crying was replaced by laughter, but it didn’t seem any less sorrowful, and Stormy could feel a dampness of her own face now. She wiped the tears away without looking away; the neon green hair and ridiculous garments brought a concerned frown.
Almost immediately, another transformation. This time in a blinding light. The previous tension apparently dissolving as people decided to put on their masks for a paltry promise.
The Brazen Boy, or perhaps he was a Zealot, since his attention was a skittish and ephemeral thing, scarpering off at the merest hint of his enthusiasm. Stormy watched as he was born anew, bathed in the light that had drawn her attention, her eyebrows arching impossibly high as her eyes drank in the feathered wings.
Stormy’s body visually relaxed, her shoulders slumping and hand dropping, when the boy proved to still be himself, still the Brazen Boy, cementing his given name in her mind.
The bloodied man scrubbed his face, and reached out for Stormy. Together they rose to their feet, as she cooed gently.
Any words that she might have spoken were torn away as perhaps the most horrifying sight unfurled its charnel circus before her. Tristan’s transformation scorched Stormy’s mind. She was struck into a horrified paralysis, unable to wrench her gaze from the viciously churning mess that he was becoming, from the rending metal and machines-out-of-time that replaced what had once been a living boy. With peaceful meadow as a backdrop, the horrid juxtaposition made such a macabre event that much worse, as it was tarnished further with blood and black. Her mouth worked as she looked upon the aberration, but no words came out. Once the twisted birth was over, and Tristan spoke, Stormy turned away quickly. Her face was pale, a thousand-yard stare fixed in place.
She patted Koda’s shoulder. Her thumb rubbed gentle circles in the fleshy nook just underneath his bone.
“It’s alright,” she intoned, her voice hollow. After a moment, she shook herself, and looked up at the bloodied mess of a face, trying to meet his gaze with her own. Tears brimmed in red-rimmed eyes, but did not yet fall, and a brave smiled found its way onto her face. Koda would feel her hand on his shoulder shaking, too.
“How are feeling sugar plum?” Then, after a pause, she shook her head and gave a curt laugh, “How can I help?”
The hand that held her mask shook most of all.
The ghost girl’s voice was frosty iron and she became a sheer cliff-face. Stormy seemed to flinch at her own name. Shrivelled breaths filled her lungs, frail, withered things. Her chest rose and fell faster, almost imperceptibly, but not quite.
Stormy looked down at her blue boon. Her face became a canvas for her emotions to paint across; thick oils sculpting her brow, tremulous water colours detailing her quivering lips, everything running across in a fluid, technicolour medley that reflected her tumultuous heart.
When the Rebel spoke, a smile toyed at the corners of Stormy’s lips, and she watched her, with head titled to one side. Stormy remained silent, during the back and forth, following the dirt road with her eyes until it vanished.
Then the changes came. She watched as the tearful Rebel put on the mask, and then… then Stormy was not sure what happened, but she watched aghast all the same, fingers hovering over her slack mouth. The crying was replaced by laughter, but it didn’t seem any less sorrowful, and Stormy could feel a dampness of her own face now. She wiped the tears away without looking away; the neon green hair and ridiculous garments brought a concerned frown.
Almost immediately, another transformation. This time in a blinding light. The previous tension apparently dissolving as people decided to put on their masks for a paltry promise.
The Brazen Boy, or perhaps he was a Zealot, since his attention was a skittish and ephemeral thing, scarpering off at the merest hint of his enthusiasm. Stormy watched as he was born anew, bathed in the light that had drawn her attention, her eyebrows arching impossibly high as her eyes drank in the feathered wings.
Stormy’s body visually relaxed, her shoulders slumping and hand dropping, when the boy proved to still be himself, still the Brazen Boy, cementing his given name in her mind.
The bloodied man scrubbed his face, and reached out for Stormy. Together they rose to their feet, as she cooed gently.
Any words that she might have spoken were torn away as perhaps the most horrifying sight unfurled its charnel circus before her. Tristan’s transformation scorched Stormy’s mind. She was struck into a horrified paralysis, unable to wrench her gaze from the viciously churning mess that he was becoming, from the rending metal and machines-out-of-time that replaced what had once been a living boy. With peaceful meadow as a backdrop, the horrid juxtaposition made such a macabre event that much worse, as it was tarnished further with blood and black. Her mouth worked as she looked upon the aberration, but no words came out. Once the twisted birth was over, and Tristan spoke, Stormy turned away quickly. Her face was pale, a thousand-yard stare fixed in place.
She patted Koda’s shoulder. Her thumb rubbed gentle circles in the fleshy nook just underneath his bone.
“It’s alright,” she intoned, her voice hollow. After a moment, she shook herself, and looked up at the bloodied mess of a face, trying to meet his gaze with her own. Tears brimmed in red-rimmed eyes, but did not yet fall, and a brave smiled found its way onto her face. Koda would feel her hand on his shoulder shaking, too.
“How are feeling sugar plum?” Then, after a pause, she shook her head and gave a curt laugh, “How can I help?”
The hand that held her mask shook most of all.
Stormy
The oncoming train had been a falling star in the corner of her eye.
Tristan lay there still.
It was an odd sensation, knowing how you were going to die. You can come to terms with death itself, but knowing how, and when… it’s an unwelcome revelation. The Ghost Girl’s words did little in the way of comfort. Stormy’s lantern watched from the bench. The candle had sputtered out, now a cooling puddle of black wax. The station grew brighter. A girl was running towards them. Stormy looked down at her feet. They weren’t moving.
“Huh,” she tilted her head to the side, “I guess this is it then.”
She closed her eyes.
During her more youthful years Stormy had known a man that had rather haplessly fashioned himself as a poet, Howard, his name was. He was prone to diatribe and mournful ruminations. One thing he said that Stormy would have remembered, in that window after the train struck, if only she could, was this: “The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents”. It was quite true; had she been able to recall the passage, her mind would have snapped easier than the driest of frail twigs.
So it came to be that a lazy breeze bumped into and over Stormy.
She opened her eyes.
Gradually, her senses would return. Above was an expansive pool of furtive blue, stretching from horizon to horizon to horizon. The sun chased idle clouds across the sky. She lay there watching for a time, a little stunned. Underneath her she felt the soft bed of grass, damp still from morning’s dew. It stretched off in a sea of shimmering emerald, with dirt brown surf breaking the waves as the path wound away out of sight.
A deep breath entered her lungs. A grin split her face. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. She rubbed the earth with her hands, feeling the sodden clay and delicate blades, and then brought her grass-stained hands up to her face and inhaled again deeply. It was late-spring sweetness and loam eager to grow new life. She sighed, and stretched her branches, splaying her fingers and toes wide in the meadow.
What a joy it is to live.
Other voices cropped into life, and suddenly she noticed the figure silhouetted in the sunny day. The Ghost Girl’s painfully singular in her meagre and dispassionate way. Stormy nodded slowly to herself, lying there in the grass, only a little way from them. It was obvious she had just been privy to some rather powerful pixie magic, but it was far more charnel than had been expected; toadstool rings and waystones were more her speed.
Rolling onto her side, away from the kerfuffle, Stormy frowned as something dug into her hip. It was the gift, the deep-blue mask. Her hand snatched it up, and held it close to her chest as her gaze flitted to a flower. It was a dark and bold damsel, flecked with white-bright stars from the night sky.
“M’lady,” Stormy curtseyed as best she could, given she was lying on her side, “You are a looker, aren’t you just?” She reached forward, touching the petals, and then trailing her thumb and finger to its lower stem. “Excuse me.” And with that, she snipped the flower between two nails. “There.” She put the flower in her hair, by her right ear. “Now, we’ll see this new world together.” Stormy beamed.
Retching from somebody in the orbit of the main group drew Stormy’s dream-dazed attention. She saw a man, sitting, clutching his stomach. Rolling to her feet, she began to make her way over.
“How now, brown cow?” But as she sauntered closer, she saw the red puddle spreading at his knees. She closed the last few steps with uncharacteristic haste, mask in hand. She crouched at his side, but was careful not to touch him.
“There there Sugar, it’s alright,” she poured her words slow and soft and sweet, like crystal honey, “Just try to take deep breaths, it’s alright now darling.” It was then she noticed the tendrils of oily black smoke rising from him. She looked at the others, to each of the main group, still caught in posturing, to the brazen boy, to Tristan, and then, slowly, to the Ghost Girl, impassive as ever.
“Hey buttercup,” She called, waving a hand curtly at her from her crouching position, “Do you know what’s wrong with him? It’s not quite right that he’s got blood in his sick, y’know?”
The oncoming train had been a falling star in the corner of her eye.
Tristan lay there still.
It was an odd sensation, knowing how you were going to die. You can come to terms with death itself, but knowing how, and when… it’s an unwelcome revelation. The Ghost Girl’s words did little in the way of comfort. Stormy’s lantern watched from the bench. The candle had sputtered out, now a cooling puddle of black wax. The station grew brighter. A girl was running towards them. Stormy looked down at her feet. They weren’t moving.
“Huh,” she tilted her head to the side, “I guess this is it then.”
She closed her eyes.
During her more youthful years Stormy had known a man that had rather haplessly fashioned himself as a poet, Howard, his name was. He was prone to diatribe and mournful ruminations. One thing he said that Stormy would have remembered, in that window after the train struck, if only she could, was this: “The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents”. It was quite true; had she been able to recall the passage, her mind would have snapped easier than the driest of frail twigs.
So it came to be that a lazy breeze bumped into and over Stormy.
She opened her eyes.
Gradually, her senses would return. Above was an expansive pool of furtive blue, stretching from horizon to horizon to horizon. The sun chased idle clouds across the sky. She lay there watching for a time, a little stunned. Underneath her she felt the soft bed of grass, damp still from morning’s dew. It stretched off in a sea of shimmering emerald, with dirt brown surf breaking the waves as the path wound away out of sight.
A deep breath entered her lungs. A grin split her face. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. She rubbed the earth with her hands, feeling the sodden clay and delicate blades, and then brought her grass-stained hands up to her face and inhaled again deeply. It was late-spring sweetness and loam eager to grow new life. She sighed, and stretched her branches, splaying her fingers and toes wide in the meadow.
What a joy it is to live.
Other voices cropped into life, and suddenly she noticed the figure silhouetted in the sunny day. The Ghost Girl’s painfully singular in her meagre and dispassionate way. Stormy nodded slowly to herself, lying there in the grass, only a little way from them. It was obvious she had just been privy to some rather powerful pixie magic, but it was far more charnel than had been expected; toadstool rings and waystones were more her speed.
Rolling onto her side, away from the kerfuffle, Stormy frowned as something dug into her hip. It was the gift, the deep-blue mask. Her hand snatched it up, and held it close to her chest as her gaze flitted to a flower. It was a dark and bold damsel, flecked with white-bright stars from the night sky.
“M’lady,” Stormy curtseyed as best she could, given she was lying on her side, “You are a looker, aren’t you just?” She reached forward, touching the petals, and then trailing her thumb and finger to its lower stem. “Excuse me.” And with that, she snipped the flower between two nails. “There.” She put the flower in her hair, by her right ear. “Now, we’ll see this new world together.” Stormy beamed.
Retching from somebody in the orbit of the main group drew Stormy’s dream-dazed attention. She saw a man, sitting, clutching his stomach. Rolling to her feet, she began to make her way over.
“How now, brown cow?” But as she sauntered closer, she saw the red puddle spreading at his knees. She closed the last few steps with uncharacteristic haste, mask in hand. She crouched at his side, but was careful not to touch him.
“There there Sugar, it’s alright,” she poured her words slow and soft and sweet, like crystal honey, “Just try to take deep breaths, it’s alright now darling.” It was then she noticed the tendrils of oily black smoke rising from him. She looked at the others, to each of the main group, still caught in posturing, to the brazen boy, to Tristan, and then, slowly, to the Ghost Girl, impassive as ever.
“Hey buttercup,” She called, waving a hand curtly at her from her crouching position, “Do you know what’s wrong with him? It’s not quite right that he’s got blood in his sick, y’know?”
Stormy
Masks were removed, showing for some of those precious moments their faces, their true nature, as the masquerade continued, albeit, dancing to a different tune. And their hostess was becoming increasingly unnerving. Yet, somehow, Stormy had not fully committed to her decision.
The bassoons and oboes of the fathomless blue only she heard soothed – no – subdued her mind. It was a surreal change to the routine Stormy had allowed herself to slip into, coddled by comfort and familiarity, and somehow she could not quite grasp the cold, grey instruments of pain and murder that were postured before her. Stormy rubbed her temple. She watched her feet shuffle and squash dirt and dust that caked the slabs of stone floor.
IT. IS. SOON. TIME.
These words had no voice, rather, they appeared in her mind as a deep and yawning understanding, a sentiment transferred to her across the ephemeral veil. There was a flash of the octopus, but something was different now…
BANG!
The thunder-crack was near deafening. Stormy whirled her attention towards it. In such a hard and flat space, the sound echoed and rang, fading eventually into a harsh ringing, and then into silence. Except it wasn’t silence; everyone began moving and acting, dancing to a new song of panic replacing that quiet string interlude of the ever-mounting tension.
Stormy saw two bodies crumple, one onto the tracks, and the other into a corner. The police officer, that much she had gleamed even during her feverish state, quickly received help. Seeing the other man struggling to his feet, bleeding, and sweat pouring from his brow, Stormy felt obliged to aid him in some way. The world was uneven as she rushed over to him.
Yes, this was surreal, but now it was mortally so; reality was now a frozen knife-point, pressed into the small of her back.
“Darling,” She began, once in front of him, her arms flapped at her side, her hands reaching, and then shying away from him, “Uhm, I think you should lie down dear. You don’t look so great.” She looked around and gave an empty laugh, “Or maybe I can help you?”
It was then that another bolt of lightning split the world, and left Stormy’s ear throbbing. Turning from Oedipus, she almost gagged at the carnal amalgam that stretched from the body: globules of parietal and occipital lobe mingled with other viscera, blood, and shards of skull. Stormy stared, her hand slowly rising to cover her wide-open mouth. Tears fell freely.
Masks were removed, showing for some of those precious moments their faces, their true nature, as the masquerade continued, albeit, dancing to a different tune. And their hostess was becoming increasingly unnerving. Yet, somehow, Stormy had not fully committed to her decision.
The bassoons and oboes of the fathomless blue only she heard soothed – no – subdued her mind. It was a surreal change to the routine Stormy had allowed herself to slip into, coddled by comfort and familiarity, and somehow she could not quite grasp the cold, grey instruments of pain and murder that were postured before her. Stormy rubbed her temple. She watched her feet shuffle and squash dirt and dust that caked the slabs of stone floor.
IT. IS. SOON. TIME.
These words had no voice, rather, they appeared in her mind as a deep and yawning understanding, a sentiment transferred to her across the ephemeral veil. There was a flash of the octopus, but something was different now…
BANG!
The thunder-crack was near deafening. Stormy whirled her attention towards it. In such a hard and flat space, the sound echoed and rang, fading eventually into a harsh ringing, and then into silence. Except it wasn’t silence; everyone began moving and acting, dancing to a new song of panic replacing that quiet string interlude of the ever-mounting tension.
Stormy saw two bodies crumple, one onto the tracks, and the other into a corner. The police officer, that much she had gleamed even during her feverish state, quickly received help. Seeing the other man struggling to his feet, bleeding, and sweat pouring from his brow, Stormy felt obliged to aid him in some way. The world was uneven as she rushed over to him.
Yes, this was surreal, but now it was mortally so; reality was now a frozen knife-point, pressed into the small of her back.
“Darling,” She began, once in front of him, her arms flapped at her side, her hands reaching, and then shying away from him, “Uhm, I think you should lie down dear. You don’t look so great.” She looked around and gave an empty laugh, “Or maybe I can help you?”
It was then that another bolt of lightning split the world, and left Stormy’s ear throbbing. Turning from Oedipus, she almost gagged at the carnal amalgam that stretched from the body: globules of parietal and occipital lobe mingled with other viscera, blood, and shards of skull. Stormy stared, her hand slowly rising to cover her wide-open mouth. Tears fell freely.
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