The Clockwork Mansion

Oi, I'm finally posting a topic here. Don't expect too many updates until I finally finish the first chapter of Keaton's backstory (it's almost done!), but I'm hoping to post little irrelevant drabbles and other gift-related snippets here as well. Mostly, at the moment, I'm trying to revive my writing muse.

That said, let's get this train wreck a-rollin'.

The projects I'm planning on working on in the near future. Important projects. Keep your eyes peeled.

• My First Kiss at the Public Execution (one shot)
• The S.A.I.N.Ts (one shot)

The backstory of my character, Katherine Beatrix Jyraneth, organized for convenient navigation.
Rating: R, for violence and upcoming horrendous subject matter.

Book One: Childhood
Prologue: They Moved in the Darkness (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,5102.msg232914.html#msg232914)
Chapter 1: They Don't Sleep Anymore on the Beach (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,5102.msg261776.html#msg261776)

1. Crash
2. Dim
3. Futile
4. Erratic
5. Loved
6. Soft
7. Hold
8. Shackles
9. Broken
10. Precious
11. Odds and Ends
12. Tea
13. Twisted
14. Echo
15. Soothe
16. Fight
17. Naked
18. Push
19. Alive
20. New
21. Born
22. Murmur
23. Devious
24. Isolation
25. Starve
26. Breakable
27. Winter
28. Ignore
29. Color
30. Grace
31. Belong
32. Choke
33. Reach
34. Difficult
35. Heat
36. Veneer
37. Fall
38. Nightmare
39. Contagious
40. Good Riddance
41. Goodbye
42. Scarred
43. Last dance
44. Burn
45. Steady
46. Monster
47. Voodoo
48. Shine
49. Intent
50. Camping
51. Grave
52. Machine
53. Destination
54. Nowhere
55. Garden
56. I Know
57. Dust
58. Dream
59. Destiny
60. Spring
61. Sigh
62. Fingertips
63. Waiting
64. Playboy
65. Revenge
66. July
67. Desire
68. Free
69. Celebration
70. Stars
71. Morgue
72. Space
73. Whitewash
74. Alone
75. Coma
76. Letters
77. Phone Call
78. Music
79. Silence
80. Cards
81. Emblem
82. Elephant
83. Monopoly
84. Reality
85. Serenity
86. Bone
87. Chalk Dust
88. Manuscript
89. Ink
90. Perfection
91. Ring
92. Drive
93. Missing
94. Full Moon
95. New Direction
96. Writer's Choice
97. Writer's Choice
98. Writer's Choice
99. Writer's Choice
100. Writer's Choice

A list of all the stories I've written. Expect more in the future. Some of them are going to be mere drabbles of only a few hundred words; some of them are going to be exceedingly long. Either way, I hope you enjoy.

September 2008
Rosy Pink (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,5102.msg231095.html#msg231095)
Rating: R for suggestive, disturbing themes and strong language
Length: Approximately 729 words
Summary: Keaton plays a game with Siegfried. One-shot story.

The Lacrimosa (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,5102.msg231274.html#msg231274)
Rating: G - nothing objectionable
Length: 4 pages in Microsoft Word
Summary: "Lacrimosa. The moth-thing that ate children at night because the gods killed its own."

October 2008
Yugo/Keaton RP (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,5102.msg232287.html#msg232287)
Rating: PG-13 for severe violence and strong language.
Length: 10 pages. Yikes!
Summary: An excerpt from a collaborative RP between myself and Yugo.

He Never Ate Another Candy Bar Again (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,5102.msg237574.html#msg237574)
Rating: PG for some language.
Length: 2 pages in Microsoft Word, equaling 556 words.
Summary: A birthday present to Tapewolf and a pointless interlude with Daryil. Candy bars are involved.

Rosy Pink
Warning: Rebma (R), for extremely suggestive themes and Siegfried's mouth. Don't worry, there's no sex... but, uh, it's certainly implied.

Keaton and this writing belong to me; Siegfried and the Shades of Gray universe belong to Ren Gaulen.

Altogether, this story is, roughly, 729 words according to Microsoft Word. It took me the whole afternoon to write.

Mods, please don't ban me. :<

---

The jackal was smiling with all the sadistic, saccharine-laden mirth in the world as she tugged on the leash in her hand, watching the feline on the other end snarl and brandish his fangs viciously. If his hands weren't chained behind his back, she was fairly sure that he would have murdered her seven times over for this outrageous offense.

"Breakfast time," Keaton said in a harmonious singsong, reaching off to the side, rummaging through some unseen belongings. "Come and get it."

"Fuck you," Siegfried growled, gritting his teeth. Keaton grinned toothily, unperturbed by his resentment. "Fuck you, you stupid bitch. I'll tear your throat to shreds once I'm free. You will regret this."

Keaton's eyes traced the cord of the leash leading up to the collar.  She had selected a lovely, rosy pink for the rhinestone-studded collar, ornamented almost perfunctorily with a gaudy-looking, heart-shaped nametag, and the accompanying leash anchored to it.  She wanted the most feminine, emasculating color available, she had insisted to the person customizing the ridiculously garish accessory. While her specifications were met with skepticism, they were not rebuffed. Keaton knew how repulsed Siegfried was by this particular color. She knew what he had gone through, and she wanted him to relive every one of those traumatic memories in exchange for the pain his master had inflicted upon her.

Reciprocity, even when indirect, was a wonderful, wonderful thing.

"Aw, don't be like that, sugarplum," Keaton chided Siegfried, wagging her finger at him like a teacher scolding a small child. His indignant reaction amused her. "Honestly, Ziggy..."

Still grinning, Keaton seized the leash and pulled, drawing the length taut. The already tight collar around Siegfried's neck was constricting his windpipe; with his remaining breath he choked and staggered forward, struggling to breathe in spite of this obstruction. "You shouldn't be cussing at the person holding the leash, bitch."

Keaton loosened some of the tension when she saw Siegfried's attempts at breathing accelerate, liberating his throat. She watched him swallow oxygen gratefully and, while she knew he couldn't curse her out, she finally scooped up the object she wanted and deposited it in her lap. It was a big, glass bowl, filled to the brim with plump, mouth-watering strawberries. Delicately picking one of the fruits, she leaned down and held it in front of Siegfried's muzzle.

"Eat this," Keaton said. When Siegfried glowered at her, she withdrew her hand with a flourishing, condescending motion. "Aw, not hungry? Well, I guess you won't be getting anything to eat for the rest of the day."

Siegfried seemed infuriated by this threat, but he was a pragmatic soul and understood the consequences of his lasting arrogance. He was starving; Keaton had left him, isolated, in a chamber for nearly a week with only a few bare essentials – like a replenishing supply of water - to survive. Continuous resistance would lead, ultimately, to deprivation of key resources, and required energy. He could make Keaton assume that he had submitted; lull her into a sense of false security, while ruminating on potential ways to escape. And once she had lowered her guard, he would kill her.

Hesitantly, Siegfried opened his mouth. Keaton interpreted this action as surrender, and placed the strawberry on his tongue after plucking away the leaves. "I knew you would see things my way."

Siegfried closed his mouth and chewed. The fruit was flavorful and delicious in his mouth, a cooling juxtaposition to his smoldering fury. His mind was laced with promises of vengeance that would never achieve fruition, not until the time was ripe. Keaton prepared another strawberry, then, once she had removed all the leaves and once he had swallowed the first part of his meal, she tugged Siegfried closer with an unexpected jerk of the leash. She rested his head on her lap, just beside the bowl. Keaton held the naked strawberry to Siegfried's lips, watching him reluctantly accept it. She placed the bowl filled with strawberries on the end table beside her armchair.

"I think I like you better this way, Ziggy," Keaton murmured almost thoughtfully, reaching down and grasping the nametag of his collar. Siegfried's name had been etched into the silver heart in delicate, feminine cursive. "Siegfried Nox, buck naked, collared, and eating strawberries like a trained pet."

Keaton twirled the nametag around so its back was facing her gaze. Emblazoned on that side were the words Property of Keaton.

With a smile of contentment that was markedly unnerving, Keaton leaned against the back of her armchair, starting to undo her belt. Her next words hit Siegfried like a lightning strike, and he nearly choked on his half-devoured strawberry. "I wonder what Kula would think of you now."

Siegfried's eyes were wide and his face petrified in shock in the lingering moments before impotent rage would undoubtedly register. Still smiling, Keaton unzipped her fly.

OWCH. Poor Zig. He suffered abuse before, and he keeps suffering the same abuse now. Well, at least he is not going to get raepd this time.. OH WAIT!

Not my thing, but well-written.  Does the existence of this thread mean that Keaton's backstory is imminent, or are you going to keep it ticking over with shorts until you're ready?

"Property of Keaton." Pure evil, my dear Keaton. Oh my gods... poor poor Ziggy. This is awesome. I must know how Keaton did this. I'm not even jealous that you stole him from me.

Is it wrong that I kept laughing at Ziggypoo's plight?

Quote from: Jairus on September 28, 2008, 07:58:28 PM
Is it wrong that I kept laughing at Ziggypoo's plight?

No, because even I am laughing at it.

Quote from: Ren Gaulen on September 28, 2008, 07:51:24 PM
OWCH. Poor Zig. He suffered abuse before, and he keeps suffering the same abuse now. Well, at least he is not going to get raepd this time.. OH WAIT!

OHO I SEE WHAT YOU DID THAR.

But seriously, I'm so glad you liked this story, and even got a kick out of it. X3 I was worried you were going to murder me.

Quote from: Tapewolf on September 28, 2008, 07:53:07 PM
Not my thing, but well-written.  Does the existence of this thread mean that Keaton's backstory is imminent, or are you going to keep it ticking over with shorts until you're ready?

Glad you liked the story, even if it wasn't your thing. :) As for Keaton's backstory... yes. c: But I'm probably going to tide everything over with a few shorts during chapter intervals.

Quote from: Jairus on September 28, 2008, 07:58:28 PM
"Property of Keaton." Pure evil, my dear Keaton. Oh my gods... poor poor Ziggy. This is awesome. I must know how Keaton did this. I'm not even jealous that you stole him from me.

Is it wrong that I kept laughing at Ziggypoo's plight?

Mwahahaha! Thank you, good sir. >:] I strive to be evil. As for how Keaton got Ziggy into his current predicament... probably a lot of tranquilizers. A lot. Goodness, I don't know. :<

I hadn't intended for this story to be funny, but, hey, as long as you guys aren't lynching me... XD

Hey, just look outside!~ :D
:mob

Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on September 28, 2008, 08:11:00 PM
I hadn't intended for this story to be funny, but, hey, as long as you guys aren't lynching me... XD

< :rant >Guess I'm the devil's advocate when I say I don't think it's funny at all and the writer in me wants to jump down your throat and beat yours with a two-by-four. There are subjects that never make good fiction and in my opinion that's one of them. But I'm the minority here, so I'm gone. Toodles. </ :rant >

Quote from: Janus Whitefurr on September 28, 2008, 08:22:44 PM

< :rant >Guess I'm the devil's advocate when I say I don't think it's funny at all and the writer in me wants to jump down your throat and beat yours with a two-by-four. There are subjects that never make good fiction and in my opinion that's one of them. But I'm the minority here, so I'm gone. Toodles. </ :rant >

First off, Janus, I'm sorry this offended you. I did not want to offend anyone, but I got so excited about posting this that I didn't stop to consider that.

Second, I didn't mean for this story to be funny at all. I went about the wrong way of responding to some peoples' opinions.

I hope this didn't make me out to look like a total bitch, at least, and I hope the next story is better.

EDIT: The matter between Janus and I has been resolved.

Oh, my.  :3

As Tape above me has said, not entirely my cup of tea, but very well written. I as well can only hope that this means there will be more KeatonWritings in the future, if this lil' drabble is any indication.

And although I say lil', I do think that it's actually very well done, as far as length - usually your writing tends to actually be very long, and the shortness is somewhat refreshing. It's focused on what needs to be focused on, and deals with what needs to be dealt with, and is in my opinion perfectly complete as it is without going into extreme detail about things. There are subtle references to necessary background information as well, which paints a picture of the situation very nicely, while still leaving the reader curious and interested.

One does not often see Keaton the Character's sadistic side outright either. With the recent sort of stories I've been writing, I suppose I can't say anything concerning that: :P - But most certainly, it made for an engaging read. I can definitely say that I liked it.

Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 28, 2008, 11:59:08 PM
One does not often see Keaton the Character's sadistic side outright either.

It wasn't really my intention to come here and plug something else, but just as an aside, you might like the upcoming FH chapter  :mwaha

I have to say I didn't enjoy it either.  I'm not upset or bothered by it or anything silly like that, I'm just in the same boat as others here where it's not my cup of tea. This sort of piece is better as a part of a larger story where there's some build-up or explanation as to what's going on, otherwise it's just some Dom. fanfic.  Either way I look forward to reading more of your work, particularly this back-story on Keaton.

Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 28, 2008, 11:59:08 PM
Oh, my.  :3

As Tape above me has said, not entirely my cup of tea, but very well written. I as well can only hope that this means there will be more KeatonWritings in the future, if this lil' drabble is any indication.

And although I say lil', I do think that it's actually very well done, as far as length - usually your writing tends to actually be very long, and the shortness is somewhat refreshing. It's focused on what needs to be focused on, and deals with what needs to be dealt with, and is in my opinion perfectly complete as it is without going into extreme detail about things. There are subtle references to necessary background information as well, which paints a picture of the situation very nicely, while still leaving the reader curious and interested.

One does not often see Keaton the Character's sadistic side outright either. With the recent sort of stories I've been writing, I suppose I can't say anything concerning that: :P - But most certainly, it made for an engaging read. I can definitely say that I liked it.

To be honest, Cog, I don't think this was much of anyone's cup of tea. XD It's not even mine because this story was so inherently violent.

I'm overjoyed you liked this, though, Cog! :) I really am. Next time I write more about Keaton's sadistic side, though, it will be in a more thought-out story.

Quote from: Mowser on September 29, 2008, 11:04:37 AM
I have to say I didn't enjoy it either.  I'm not upset or bothered by it or anything silly like that, I'm just in the same boat as others here where it's not my cup of tea. This sort of piece is better as a part of a larger story where there's some build-up or explanation as to what's going on, otherwise it's just some Dom. fanfic.  Either way I look forward to reading more of your work, particularly this back-story on Keaton.

Fine by me, dude. I appreciate the really thoughtful response, though, and your critique is extremely valid. Largely, I do agree with you - I want to emphasize that this was a pointless drabble and I didn't do a lot of thinking about it. Which, to be honest, I really regret the day after.

Really, though, I hope that you check by even after this - I should hopefully have some better stuff up soon. I'm already working on another story (G-rated) that should be pleasing to all audiences. Hopefully. XD

The last story got slightly mixed reviews and attracted some drama, so I decided to concoct something really quickly to distract people from the atrocious subject matter of the last story. :3 This was pretty easy, since the majority of the content had been pre-written. I just needed to polish its language, but it's still kind of rushed. There is no dialogue.

That said, this might be fairly plotless, since the central focus of the story was to manage to integrate a moth into the story.

The Lacrimosa
Warnings: G, very G. Nothing objectionable whatsoever, so sit back and enjoy, everyone.
Author's Notes: This was originally done for a project in Writing class, and since it was fairly successful with my teacher I decided to polish this piece and post it here. I should note that this particular story takes place in my original setting, not the typical DMFA universe, so don't be confused by Keaton's presence. Also, this takes place when Keaton was, roughly, five years old.

Another note is that, no, Hykarthia is not usually this easy to infiltrate. I threw logic to the breeze for this time, but hopefully this should still be enjoyable – most everything else is fairly solid.

The story of the Lacrimosa is based off of the Lamiai in Greek mythology. Look it up sometime!

A final note: Harla'Keth is known as Hykarthia in my original setting. I loathe the name Harla'Keth, but because it's become so widely-publicized I figured I shouldn't bother changing it in my DMFA-centered story.

Oh, but Incibear does make a cameo.

---

She wasn't planning to be gone for too long. All Katherine wanted to do was explore a little. She just wanted to see what everything was like outside of the protective walls of Hykarthia.

Katherine had discovered her makeshift exit behind her house, particularly after she had chased her errantly rolling ball. A small, neglected fracture ruptured the wall protecting the city's boundary, possibly the aftermath of some sort of unsuccessful siege. Katherine assumed that, since the opening was mostly covered by her house, it had gone unnoticed during the routine inspections. Another possibility was that the city officials were postponing any repairs, seeing as the actual crevice was too small for any adult to wriggle through – much less any invading armies. Hubris was a common affliction among Jyraneth Clan members. A child of Katherine's demure stature, however, could effortlessly ease through the groove.

A child leaving the city unsupervised was strictly forbidden, but Katherine was so curious about what life was like outside of Hykarthia that she decided to, uncharacteristically, disregard those laws. After all, any ramifications would be minimal. At the most, she'd receive a stern admonition from her mother, assuming she was actually caught.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering and steadfastly avoiding any routes that were frequented by Jyraneth-born travelers, Raiders, and merchants, Katherine found herself in the middle of a lush, evergreen forest. Having never been in a forest before, Katherine was understandably amazed by the emerald foliage. All she had beheld in her short life were images ensconced in books and small, magically-preserved enclosures intended for public recreation in Hykarthia. She decided to explore, and started to amble around the forest.

Not long after she entered the forest, Katherine wandered into a clearing and stopped cold at what was ahead.

Resting among the bright emerald leaves, bushes, and assorted flora, hanging in the center of the clearing, was a bizarre object. It resembled a giant (around her height), opaque bundle, suspended amidst a tangled nest of sticky strands that were anchored elaborately to the surrounding trees. The bundle was immobile, yet it gave a distinct impression of being alive, due to its almost fleshy appearance. Katherine thought it was ugly. Looking at the bundle made Katherine's skin crawl underneath her fur, but she couldn't avert her eyes, as something about the bundle genuinely fascinated her.
   
With the bundle's repulsive and deterrent appearance, Katherine was instinctively averse to approaching it, but in the end curiosity won over prudence. Gingerly, she stepped over the wooden detritus blanketing the prickly earth, and investigated. The layers of fleshy secretion forming the bundle's skin were stretched taut over something encased inside; adhering to a large, swollen shape Katherine couldn't distinguish. The skin was too thick. For a moment, Katherine wondered if the bundle was going to be soft if she touched it, and prodded the bulge gently with an extended finger. It jiggled precariously in its little wreath of ichor, but in spite of the infinite amount of imaginative fates Katherine had concocted in the span of a second, the sac did not do anything else. Katherine narrowed her eyes a little, pondering the feeling of the bundle. As she thought, the bundle felt like old, wrinkled skin.

Katherine was about to turn away and forget she ever saw the bundle when it creased slightly and bisected, its skin starting to split open. Katherine screamed and bolted for the nearest bushes, diving behind the leaves. There was a slick, nasty noise like someone's hands moving through a tub of jelly, and then the sound of something falling on the leaves with a rustle. Katherine heard even more disgusting noises before everything fell silent.

For a while, Katherine outright refused to move from her subterfuge, but somehow she convinced her body to stick its head out of the leaves. Her gaze instinctively moved to where the sac once hung and she stared in open disbelief.

The sac was shriveled up and peeled open, its discarded and vacant halves still dangling listlessly on the residual traces of the sticky web. Resting on the forest floor directly beneath it was a large, spherical object Katherine likened to a ball. It was roughly the size of a volleyball, anyway. In comparison to the cocooning substance from which the ball surfaced, it was spectacularly beautiful. At first Katherine speculated that the ball was made out of a special crystal, because it was intensely luminous and resembled one of her mother's earrings. The apparent weight of the ball wouldn't make it very useful for any game, since it could not bounce or float or fly. Eventually, Katherine decided that her new ball was an enormous gemstone, but it was also too large to decorate any jewelry.

Katherine approached the ball, sidestepping a few dollops of gelatinous, nondescript gunk clinging to the branches. Scooping her hands underneath it, she gingerly lifted the ball and started to turn it in her hands. It was lighter than she thought. Bright spades of sunlight, hued a subtle green from filtering through the emerald treetops, flickered and shimmered off of the surface of the ball in brilliant, rainbow clusters. Katherine was instantly attracted to the array of colors produced by this phenomenon, and stared, mesmerized.

She turned the ball over again, and again, and again, repeating the motion until she was practically blinded by the spectacle.

Right then, Katherine resolved that she wanted this ball.

Before Katherine realized what she was doing, she had scooped up the ball and placed it in her bright red backpack. Adjusting the straps to her backpack so the ball wasn't hurting her back, she turned quickly and dashed out of the clearing.


Katherine returned to Hykarthia undetected, sneaking through the same way she escaped. Since just about everyone in the house was preoccupied, Katherine was able to smuggle in the ball completely unnoticed. When her mother noticed the peculiar bulge in her backpack, Katherine's heart caught in her throat as she feared any reprimands, but instead her mother dismissed the shape in her backpack as one of her toys and sent her on her way. She did not interrogate Keaton regarding her whereabouts; her testimony that she was visiting Issia was not rebuffed. Katherine scampered up to her room without complaint.

The instant the door shut, Katherine dropped to her knees, the backpack falling with a heavy thud! and the sound of jingling key chains on the carpeted floor.

Katherine zipped open her backpack and rolled the ball in a safe place under her bed. She decided she would show Lianna her discovery tomorrow, and possibly lead her to the clearing she visited. Lianna could keep a secret, so she wasn't too concerned about her telling their parents. Just in case, Katherine covered the ball with a few of her stuffed animals, strategically maneuvering them over the space under her bed so no one could see it. Unaware of how conspicuous the stuffed animal formation looked, congregated in front of her bed; Katherine felt unreasonably proud of her presumably-brilliant accomplishment and decided to retire to bed on that note.


Late at night, Katherine was cuddled up in bed, her head propped up against a pillow and her eyes closed. In the middle of her relatively peaceful sleep, she was disturbed by an unusual quake that shuddered through the foundations of her bed. Her mattress rattled atop the wooden frame, and Katherine forced her eyes open as an identical tremor pervaded through the structure. As she was still gripped by lethargy, Katherine refused to go through the tremendous effort needed to move her body. She thought the shaking was just her imagination at first, until it became more physical.

Her bed continued to shake, and suddenly she watched the mound of stuffed animals protecting the ball quiver as well. A teddy bear sporting head-wings and back-wings tumbled off of the mountain and bounced off of the floor, followed by a lopsided giraffe, and the rest of the pile followed. Katherine watched in bewilderment, uncertain how to react, until the quaking suddenly ceased with a perfunctory bump that nearly lifted her bed. Katherine squeaked and retreated under the sheets, staring at the toppled stuffed animal pile.

For a moment, she thought this was the monster under the bed that Jasmine had teased her about.

A dark shape was moving out from underneath the bed. Something ichorous and gooey was clinging to its body, glistening with a fake, oily luster in the moonlight, outlining the creases and sinewy muscles of its form. It was around her height, but its features were utterly indistinct in the monochromatic darkness. Katherine was petrified. The body trembled for a moment, emitting a low, nondescript groan, like maracas chattering in distorted unison. It rested its claw-like hands on the ground and hefted itself to its talon-clad feet. The creature walked across the carpet and to the window, resolutely ignoring Katherine, who was practicing the virtue of silence out of fear that it would turn its attention to her.

The creature's back rippled imperceptibly. Katherine could see something crawling underneath the creature's flesh. A thin slit was opening between its bony shoulder-blades and descending automatically, splitting open its skin. The flaps of flesh peeled apart as two wet, diaphanous shapes forced themselves out of its body, and spread so they flanked either side of its body at full span. Katherine recognized a strange, dusty patterning on the membrane of the wings. Her eyes trailed along the loops and whorls of the decorations until she reached the bone-white outline of an abstract skull resting on the creature's back, as though it was emblazoned on the muscle exposed by its frayed flesh, neatly peeled in two.

The creature took a moment to dry off those membranous appendages by flapping them a few times, scattering the vestigial juices. Using its talons, it picked at the lock of Katherine's window and gently opened it, stepping onto the cushioned bench underneath the windowsill. The creature's back was buzzing. Finally, Katherine let out a whimper, only to realize her mistake and hide under her sheets as the creature turned its head to look, almost blankly, at her.

The creature's face reminded her of a butterfly's; a very ugly butterfly's. Its eyes were large and bulbous, its head was crowned with two feathery, wet antennae that sloped from its scalp and hung like tendrils before its visage. Fine brown hair coated its features, reminiscent of the rest of its pelt. Even more unnervingly, Katherine could not tell if the creature was experiencing some sort of disdain at her presence because of its stoic features.

Katherine felt her heart stop. Lacrimosa. The moth-thing that ate children in the night because the gods killed its own.

The creature was looking directly at her, but simply turned away after a pause, and glanced to the open window. Those thin appendages spread again, and with an almost elegant oscillation of its legs, it leaped out the window and dropped out of sight.

Katherine thought she had seen the last of the creature, but in the next moment, it was levitating until it was hovering before her window again; the two appendages Katherine positively identified as its wings were moving fast and blurred by its movements. Moving fast, the creature flew away, barreling through the air, gradually disappearing until it was just a speck against the moon and Katherine could no longer see it.

Only when the creature was out of sight, did Katherine scream.

While not as comforting and tear inducing as the glorious sun-moth, I have been waiting to read this story for some time, I think. :3 Hooray for the Lacrimosa! And no doubt I relate to different canon, but I do believe there is a picture of Lianna and Keaton doing just what little Keaton was thinking about - returning to the clearing later, I mean.

I've not read the legend of the Lamiai, alas, but I did have a question regarding what Keaton was thinking at the end - it's a moth that eats children because the gods killed it's children, but it appears that this one was just born: I suppose I'm wondering if this is the child the Lacrimosa eventually had, or the original Lacrimosa undergoing some sort of metamorphosis?

As always, the prose is vibrant and a pleasure to read. I can most certainly say that it was enjoyable.

Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 29, 2008, 04:27:00 PM
While not as comforting and tear inducing as the glorious sun-moth, I have been waiting to read this story for some time, I think. :3 Hooray for the Lacrimosa! And no doubt I relate to different canon, but I do believe there is a picture of Lianna and Keaton doing just what little Keaton was thinking about - returning to the clearing later, I mean.

Hey there, Cog! :3 Haha, actually, this story was based off of the sun moth so I need to convince Ren and Jairus to read it. My Writing teacher saw the moth outside of the school and asked me to do an assignment based off of it, so that way the time we spent dicking around and watching the moth was relevant to something educational. XD

That particular picture has no relevance to the Lacrimosa, but now that I think about it, that's a very apt comparison. I think it might be appropriate to mention.

QuoteI've not read the legend of the Lamiai, alas, but I did have a question regarding what Keaton was thinking at the end - it's a moth that eats children because the gods killed it's children, but it appears that this one was just born: I suppose I'm wondering if this is the child the Lacrimosa eventually had, or the original Lacrimosa undergoing some sort of metamorphosis?

First off, Lamia was a serpentine monster who was cursed by Hera for having an affair with Zeus. Hera not only turned Lamia into a snake-monster, but killed her children. Because of this, Lamia ate other people's children. This was one of my favorite mythological pieces as a little kid. I still love it. It's so morbid. XD

The factual Wikipedia article. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lamia_(mythology))

As for the Lacrimosa - you are indeed correct. This is the Lacrimosa's child, since the real Lacrimosa is much scarier, and definitely larger than a five year old. :3 Actually, I just realized that the story would have been a lot better if the real Lacrimosa broke into Keaton's house to retrieve her egg.

I'll probably write something about the Lacrimosa's full mythology later, either informational or dramatic.

Quote
As always, the prose is vibrant and a pleasure to read. I can most certainly say that it was enjoyable.

Thank you very much, Cog, for the kind words. :) I'm glad you enjoyed this. :tighthug

A very good story, Keats! I liked it. It was a bit scary (in a good way), and very enjoyable. Keep up the good work! :3

Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on September 29, 2008, 04:37:19 PM

Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 29, 2008, 04:27:00 PM
While not as comforting and tear inducing as the glorious sun-moth, I have been waiting to read this story for some time, I think. :3 Hooray for the Lacrimosa! And no doubt I relate to different canon, but I do believe there is a picture of Lianna and Keaton doing just what little Keaton was thinking about - returning to the clearing later, I mean.

Hey there, Cog! :3 Haha, actually, this story was based off of the sun moth so I need to convince Ren and Jairus to read it. My Writing teacher saw the moth outside of the school and asked me to do an assignment based off of it, so that way the time we spent dicking around and watching the moth was relevant to something educational. XD

That particular picture has no relevance to the Lacrimosa, but now that I think about it, that's a very apt comparison. I think it might be appropriate to mention.

What do you mean "convince" me? I saw it and read it, I just wanted to make a post in my thread before I forgot to do it while I commented on your story. Anyway, on topic, I like it, especially little Keats. Very adorable and innocent, though I sense a grounding in her future for going outside the city. Like Ren said, keep up the good work! *to self: "get back to work, Jay!"*

But Bright/Sun Moth would never be evil! He is a friend to all, especially children!

You appear to have taken some liberty with the life cycle of a moth. Not to mention the metamorphose process and by-products...

Notwithstanding that, I enjoyed it - if perhaps not quite immensely, at least a lot.


I enjoyed the earlier one, as well, for that matter.

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on September 29, 2008, 05:14:39 PM
You appear to have taken some liberty with the life cycle of a moth. Not to mention the metamorphose process and by-products...

Notwithstanding that, I enjoyed it - if perhaps not quite immensely, at least a lot.


I enjoyed the earlier one, as well, for that matter.

Well... it is a fantasy moth monster... maybe a few things are different.

A very vivid piece.  I can particularly visualise Keaton as a kid, rolling the chrysalis around like a ball.  What did you get, marks-wise for the original version?

Thank you to Jairus and Ren for the praise! :3 Bright Moth may not live in the flesh, but he lives on in our hearts. :C

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on September 29, 2008, 05:14:39 PM
You appear to have taken some liberty with the life cycle of a moth. Not to mention the metamorphose process and by-products...

Notwithstanding that, I enjoyed it - if perhaps not quite immensely, at least a lot.


I enjoyed the earlier one, as well, for that matter.

Hehe, I did. Actually, I did a lot of alterations, but I figured that the moth-creature has a metamorphosis/life-cycle process independent from mundane moths. XD Plus, I wanted to speed up the process so Keaton could have an unfortunate encounter with a baby Lacrimosa.

But still, I'm glad you enjoyed the story. c:

Quote from: Tapewolf on September 29, 2008, 07:58:27 PM
A very vivid piece.  I can particularly visualise Keaton as a kid, rolling the chrysalis around like a ball.  What did you get, marks-wise for the original version?

Thank you very much, Tape! :) As for the mark... an A-. I am proud of myself. XD

Actually, you really make me want to draw a picture of little Keaton playing with the egg. That would be adorable.

Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on September 29, 2008, 08:07:56 PM
Actually, you really make me want to draw a picture of little Keaton playing with the egg. That would be adorable.

Ooh, that would be adorable. And congratulations on the paper's grade.

Very nicely written both of them Keats! I do love the way you managed to have no dialog in 'The Lacrimosa' yet still convey all that was needed. Very well done Miss Jackal!

Ah, the last story was much well-received than the first one. :) Thanks for all the lovely feedback, everyone. Remember, comments make my world go 'round.

Anyway, I wasn't expecting to update again so soon, but me and Yugo decided to put this up. This is an excerpt from a private RP we're collaborating on. I was playing Keaton, he was playing his Jyraneth character, Elenor. Mind you, there's a bit of retconning with the Jyraneth Clan and Elenor's history, but it's all in good fun, I swear!

I don't think I need to over who's written each post, since I marked all of them obviously. :B

There might be more after this, there might not be. Depends on when we start this thing up again.

Warning, there's some serious violence here. I'M LOOKING AT YOU, YUGO. :<

---

Yugo – Post One:
Elenor paced about her sanctum, the pale soul-less eyes of the corpse on the slab staring at her accusingly. She had a name and a last known direction travel, but it made no sense. Judging from her knowledge of that area of Furrae, Katherine was heading towards a small village, barely populated enough for any form of social stealth. Was she going to kill them? Elenor wasn't sure about any of it. If the incubus had been a higher ranking official....If the incubus had been a higher ranking official, Qaisyne would be at my doorstep for my blood right now, Elenor growled in her mind. A couple of hundred years and for what? A name and a possible location. Elenor closed her eyes, and thought back to before the Jyraneth had well and truly damned themselves forever: Katherine had been just a child then. There were few enough Jyraneth left in Har'Khell then that identifying any particular one was never particularly difficult, and it was quite celebrated when a new Jyraneth was brought into the world. Her family had loved her, and now they all lay slain, probably in oblivion forever. Sighing, she felt a twinge of guilt, responsible for sending the creature behind her to a similar fate. No matter, it was time for action, not reminiscence or regret. Silently, she strode out, Shadowfell casting a pale blue light on her surroundings.

   A short stoutly built leopard stood in a small reventment outside of a small village, moonlight glinting off of his chainmail. Lanzi had a strange sort of smile on his face, reflecting on the sucesses of the day. They had captured a succubus! Despite all of her guile and tricks, the had captured one! A small voice in the back of his head scrabbled in fear, reminding him of their danger. She'll kill us all. We're all like children compared to those bastards. Without mercy, we're all going to die! But that was a quiet and distant voice now. He had done it himself! Lanzi had caught her in the act of shapeshifting and subdued her when it counted. Distracted by his reverie, Lanzi barely even noticed when a nearby shadow casually flicked at him, taking his head off at the shoulders in a spatter of crimson, a smile of pride still serenely painted on his face. A crumple, a thud. His head stared back up at his body as it fell in his last few moments, painfully aware of his surroundings. And the little voice, once far away, said smugly: I told you so. The world disappeared.

   Elenor might have razed the village for its impudence if it weren't for the children. Killing every townsperson and leaving their children to fend for themselves was no better than killing them herself, and her clan held very rigid beliefs with regards to their sanctity. Quietly, from the Darkness, she observed the silent town, for most part inactive outside of the few guards posted here and there. The fact that three of the four sentries were posted at a small shed near the edge of town practically gave away Katherine's location. Where there's one, there's many, Elenor mused. It was a mistake that would cost them. Elenor was a great skulker, flitting from shadow to shadow, hiding in the cool comfort of the Darkness, Shadowfell at the ready. One of the guards' ears flicked in response to some unseen noise, and she turned casually to inspect it, expecting nothing. She gurgled softly as the encircled head of Shadowfell punched violently into her sternum, melting chain-links, crushing her ribs and pulping the beating heart behind them. She fell without so much as a whimper. These fools never know what they've put in their hands, she thought coldly as she killed another guard with a wide disembowelling stroke, entrails and blood boiling and steaming as they poured onto the ground. A slight gesture of her hand, and a little magic, and she closed off her victim's throat, effecitvely silencing his screams. The third whirled to the sudden commotion, and found that a black leathery tentacle had suddenly grown from his chest. Idly brushing down the folds of her dress, Elenor took a step inside the dark wooden building, satisfied that her intrusion remained undetected.


Keaton - Post Two:
There was a very small settlement in the middle of the plains, resting amidst the nondescript flora, which had no name. Residents fondly referred to their anonymous accommodations by a number of endearing phrases and nicknames, sometimes brandishing typically-derogatory phrases like badges of honor. To those humble townspeople, they were essentially at the pinnacle of their profession, in spite of the limitations of their environment and apparent lack of wealth. They were a simple people, they preferred their solitude and to be detached from the surrounding world, aside from the minimal contact the townspeople had when transporting their latest harvest.

At least, that was the information Keaton had received about the village. Nothing else was available due to the secretive, alienated nature of that particular village. For all intents and purposes, Keaton would have completely avoided the town – little isolated settlements such as that one tended to be unforgiving and superstitiously, vehemently adverse to the presence of Creatures or foreign visitors - if she wasn't suffering from the poisonous aftermath of a snake bite. Not exactly knowledgeable about the species of serpents, Keaton had no idea that the bite she suffered was so severe until she started to experience the debilitating aftereffects. She prolonged her survival by sucking out some of the venom and using an advanced form of metamorphosis to enhance her metabolism and force the venom out of her system, but neither option was as successful as she had hoped. After a few hours, Keaton resigned to the inevitable and arrived at the town, using her map as navigation.

Under normal circumstances, Keaton would have effortlessly passed off as an ordinary, unassuming Being. However, in her deliriousness, Keaton neglected to realize that she had left her head-wings exposed. Metamorphosis could be so fucking selective, especially when she could barely stand without assistance. Those who were skilled in combat were quick to apprehend the supposedly dangerous Succubus, and assaulted her in collective groups. With Keaton's battle prowess and the protection of her Morningstar, Catastrophe, she should have been victorious in that confrontation. But when delirious and reeling from the potency of the venom swirling in her veins, not to mention completely outnumbered, Keaton was almost effortlessly defeated. A deep laceration cleaved along her side, the product of a blade, was her reward. When she passed out, she was in the center of a small ring of people, each armed with their primitive weaponry.

At least one of her objectives was accomplished: the venom was treated. One of the local doctors announced that she had been bitten by a notoriously venomous snake, indigenous to the wildlife populating the fertile plains. While the townspeople would have let her die, they ultimately reached the conclusion that there would be a suitable bounty on her head. After all, a dangerous Succubus was undoubtedly responsible for countless legal transgressions, and she would only be their responsibility until they could hand her over to the Adventurers they summoned. If she was particularly renowned, then any and all rewards would be a considerable benefit to the village's economy. Despite their agricultural prowess, the town was financially suffering. In this particular dry-weather season, droughts were rather commonplace, which were clearly dealing unimaginable wounds to their livelihood. Any monetary support would be a godsend.

So instead of killing Keaton outright, or letting her slowly perish from the venom, they had her wounds treated. They bound her hands in a tight, flexible rope, and clapped an enchanted bracer – the most valuable possession the village had, largely outlawed in most Creature-oriented communities for its severity – on her forearm, negating her magical abilities. All weapons on Keaton's person were confiscated and given to the weaponsmith so he could, possibly, sell them as magical artifacts. Of course, the inhabitants of the town were completely unaware of Catastrophe's magical signature being linked to Keaton's. As far as strength went, Keaton was now no different from an ordinary, inferior Being, and although she still had a great deal of emergency fighting abilities even in Catastrophe's absence, they were useless with her bound and immobilized by her delirium.

The first stop Keaton made was to the doctor that diagnosed her poisoned condition – he had a great deal of understanding of various types of venom, given the plethora of dangerous animals in the vicinity – and he made her drink an acrid-tasting formula once she momentarily awakened. Keaton's vision was horrendously blurred and distorted, and her head was buzzing as she struggled to register the bright indistinct shapes of her new surroundings. Her mouth was dry, so she wearily accepted the drink proffered – only to retch from the hideous taste. The doctor insisted that she drink all of it, so Keaton hesitantly agreed, unaware of the contents of the drink. By now, Keaton had speculated that the formula was a special medicine that also doubled as an anesthesia, because she had been suffused with an eerie numbness after the taste cleared and nearly passed out again. The doctor, who was apparently finished with washing her snakebite and injecting her with antivenin, clinically set about to operating on her other wound. Cleaning the blood and checking for any infections, he started to stitch the cleft skin together.

Keaton was declared to be in stable condition a few hours later, but the sedatives, combined with some vestigial traces of the snakebite symptoms (although no longer life-threatening), left her dangerously close to unconsciousness. The townspeople received notification that the Adventurers that they would arrive at the town by the next morning, so they were perfectly confident that Keaton wouldn't create any disruptions. Most of the villagers retired for the night with their consciences unblemished. Meanwhile, Keaton was sent to her final destination, the prison, in a cell reserved for people – in rare cases - about to be executed. A pole was built into the foundations of the building, extending from the floor to the ceiling, where the townspeople propped Keaton's body. Her hands were tied painfully tight behind the pole so she wouldn't be able to escape, and a few volunteer guards were stationed outside the dilapidated prison to interfere in any escape attempts.

Keaton heard the door close; the room was eclipsed in a sudden shawl of darkness. There were no windows in the cell other than a small shaft protected by an iron grate at the corner of the room, casting a distorted, slanted spotlight of cold blue into the muted-monochrome cell. She waited there for a good, long time, even as her head started to clear up, and experimented with different ways to sever her ropes; all of these efforts resulting in no more than fruitless endeavors and sore, bruised wrists. Keaton felt like her arm was going to fall off from the constricted circulation caused by the bewitched bracer. She lolled her head and moaned in defeat, gritting her teeth. She wanted to give up and go to sleep (in spite of it no longer being a necessity), but, knowing what fate awaited her when she awoke, she continued to resist, going through a wide variety of tactics that would have made Houdini proud if it wasn't for their utter impotence.

Finally, Keaton let out a frustrated scream and slumped. She sat there in silence, closing her eyes, but staying bobbing over the surface of slumber.

She did not hear the massacre in the prison.


Yugo – Post Three:
Elenor calmly studied the lock on the prison door carefully. She had seen locks of its type many times before, a thick bar locked into place requiring a key to move the tumblers and allow it to slide back and forth. She also knew that to destroy the lock itself would render the mechanism useless, as a last ditch effort against escape attempts. Running a finger along the bar, she noted the reflections of gears in the soft moonlight. Eyeing down their threads, she positioned Shadowfell just at the edge, gently pushing it forward into the handle. One by one the gears hissed and bubbled, melting and shifting, bathing Elenor's face in a soft red light before quickly cooling as they splattered onto the ground.

The bar slid freely, its mechanisms broken and ruined, and Elenor gently pushed the door inward with a creak, flooding the small makeshift prison with moonlight, bathing the still figure in the center. Katherine Jyraneth, the same as Elenor had ever remembered her, although notably less conscious. Elenor mused as she slowly walked towards her, wary of being recognized as an enemy rather than a friend. She had been so young during the fall.....she'd be around 500 years old now, Elenor noted. To lose her entire family at such a young age....it must have left some permanent scars.

Elenor broke away from her reflection and bent over, bringing one hand close to Keaton's body, casting a rudimentary healing-class spell to determine the extent of her injuries. After a few moment, she frowned. Nothing more than a heavy sedative...just how stupid was this town anyways? A few guards and an analgesic, and that was supposed to keep a Succubus in line? The soft glowing of runes from behind the pole caught her attention, and Elenor at once understood. Creature-Being bracers. They had been content to leave it at that, safe asleep in their beds. Their complacency was ill-founded.

Her attention directed itself to a spell in her mind, pressing her hand against Keaton's arm, slowly removed the effects of the sedative. She could break the bracers later, when Katherine wouldn't try to kil her in her confusion. "Katherine? Katherine Jyraneth?", she asked, taking a step back for her own safety. Gods knew how she had changed in four and a half centuries.


Keaton – Post Four:
Keaton was at first utterly unresponsive to Elenor, just remaining slumped against the pole. From a sympathetic perspective, she looked almost pitiful, with her head hanging and her hair mostly occluding her face like a sand-colored shawl. One of her eyes was visible between the loose strands of hair; it was closed. She was breathing at a languid pace; after Elenor spoke the sound of her breathing accelerating and her bonds scraping futilely against the metal bar she was bound to, followed by the grating of the rune-etched bracers, were the only noises present in the cell.

Bit by bit, Keaton started to feel her consciousness, smothered by the medicated and suffocating darkness, stir and start to climb from the restraints that kept it entrenched. The fog and fire was creeping away with the darkness; she was feeling considerably less lethargic, but not particularly compelled or motivated to attempt to move or explore her limitations. Probably because of residual sedative lingering in her system, or perhaps because she didn't see much of a point in continually resisting after hours of the same attempts.

Besides, in Keaton's remaining irrationality, she surmised that the reason she was awakening in the first place was because she had slept through the night and it was now morning. She was afraid to open her eyes and confirm whether or not the sun had risen, precipitating the arrival of the people who would be her death. Perhaps the voice she heard, resonating in the back of her mind like the clear ring of a bell, was one of her potential executors. Keaton refused to dignify that unknown figure with her gaze, not out of determination, but because she felt deeply ashamed, vulnerable, and frightened. Given her predicament, there was very little she could do to evade her inevitable fate – unless, when she was being transported, she could run for safety. That was her best bet, aside from the possibility of when they were loading her into the Adventurers' wagon.

With that plan formulated, Keaton was about to focus on an entirely different issue when, suddenly, the enormity of the voice struck her like a thunderbolt. Her breath hitched. What was that name? Nobody – nobody had called her Katherine, not since...

There was an unceremonious clatter as her bracers raked against the bar in her automatic effort to stand up. Realizing that with her arms behind her back, she was quite bereft of balance, Keaton invested all of her effort in gazing, apprehensively, toward Elenor. After her ordeal, Keaton was more than a little disoriented and distrustful – and maybe skeptical of someone manipulating the preciousness of her unblemished childhood, but at the same time optimistic, painfully hopeful, that she had finally encountered a member of her clan after years and years of searching.

In the darkness, she saw the oily gleam of something crafted out of opaque obsidian, and heard the subaudible ring of loops of metal, clanging and jingling together. The indistinct object was tall, predominantly elongated, like a pole, and crowned with an elaborate, ornamental decoration that Keaton couldn't distinguish. Not until she narrowed her eyes, and the shape of an abstract star – a pentagram – materialized in her vision.

Something clicked in Keaton's head.

"Elenor...?" she repeated, shocked.


Yugo – Post Five:
"Easy, you're still coming down from the aftereffects of whatever they drugged you with," Elenor cautioned, moving forward to steady Keaton, placing a hand on her arm. She gently maneuvered Shadowfell behind her and, taking great care not to lop off Keaton's hands in the process, slid Shadowfell's glowing head through the ropes and bracers in one fluid motion. The broken metal hit the dirt with a thunk that reverberated throughout the building, and Elenor secretly prayed that nobody had heard. There had been enough killing as it was. At the very least, Elenor surmised, Katherine recognized her for who she was. She wasn't a particularly low-profile Jyraneth, but who knew, five hundred years could tarnish a lot of memories.

   Gently, she set Katherine on her knees. She looked almost pathetic, Elenor noted; she probably hadn't been handled particularly well by her captors. If they hadn't killed her, there must have been a good reason. Probably hired some Adventurers to get her off of their hands, Elenor thought, a fair assumption. As to how Katherine got herself captured was irrelevant. Here she was! Elenor felt lightheaded, and a little giddy from the excitement. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that she would see, let alone hold, another Jyraneth clan member after the fall.

   Now came the next step, the one she hadn't quite planned for. What did she say? And where were they going to go? Elenor frowned. It might have helped to plan this out a little more ahead of time. "That's right, Katherine, it's Elenor, and I'm as surprised as you are. But I think it might be a better time for discussion, dear, when we're in a place that's a little less hostile." She sighed. It would have to do. At least she hoped that it would.


Keaton – Post Six:
Keaton let out a very audible gasp, punctuated by a quiet exhalation of relief, as Elenor sliced through the ropes lashing her hands together and ruptured the bracer simultaneously. The scabrous patterns of runes, etched harshly into the surface of the bracer, immediately stopped glowing as the bracer snapped in two, its shattered halves rolling onto the ground with a profound quake that rocked the dilapidated foundations of the building. Keaton winced at this unexpected vibration, shrinking back and massaging her slightly-numbed wrist, and anxiously looked around for any assailants. She assumed the immensity of the reverberation was caused by any released magical energies, since it took such a great deal of power to restrain a Creature and reduce its abilities with a single, simplistic artifact.

Once on her knees, Keaton sighed and continued to stroke her arms, examining them. Well, there was some rope marks from her struggling, but she wasn't bruised, cut, or generally physically damaged other than the wounds she had been inflicted with earlier. As far as a failed excursion went, she was fairly untouched.

After a moment, Keaton glanced up at Elenor, also suspended in absolute uncertainty. Part of her wanted to openly celebrate this reunion, but considering her current predicament, this was probably inopportune. She decided to wait. Instead, Keaton, in an uncharacteristic state of placation, murmured gratefully to Elenor. "Thank you," she said, unable to coherently form anything else. After a moment of thought, something struck her, and she nearly gasped in horror. "Fuck!" she exclaimed under her breath, managing to minimize that obscenity to something, relatively, small. "I – My mace! Catastrophe! It's gone – they... they must've taken it. They -"

Keaton was panicking at the idea of losing Catastrophe. While she had a few disposable knives on her person when the townspeople had searched her, they were easily substituted and not of any concern. Catastrophe, in sentimental value, was irreplaceable. After all, she considered it the only memento of her family – plus it held the soul of one extremely anguished organized crime boss.


Yugo – Post Seven:
"Don't worry, we'll find Catastrophe too." Briefly, Elenor wondered exactly how they were going to do that. It probably wasn't concealed somewhere mischievously, out of sight, since the townspeople had considered Katherine to no longer be a threat. They had probably given it to someone with knowledge of arms and armor, and seeing as how they didn't get much trade, and had swords and chainmail, they probably had a local blacksmith. Farmers didn't have much use for implements of war, after all. In all likelihood, they were going to give it to whatever Adventurers they had hired to kill and/or escort Katherine.

   Katherine seemed almost meek compared to the eager young Raider Elenor remembered, but she chalked that up to the shock of actually seeing another Jyraneth, and a Judicator no less. "There is much to be done, and discussed, but we can catch up on the past later. Can you stand? We'll need to get your mace quickly and quietly. I've already had to dispatch a few of the guards, and the others will get suspicious when they can't see them and come looking soon." Elenor didn't find the idea of having to take on the entire town particularly tasteful. The environment was particularly harsh, and the children left behind wouldn't be able to survive on their own. In a worst-case situation, she might be able to teleport them somewhere safe but....best to worry about that if it came up.

   Opening the door a crack, Elenor cursed quietly to herself. Two of the guards on patrol on the far end of town were coming to investigate the lack of activity, and probably wouldn't be particularly quiet when they found the bodies. "There's two guards coming right now as a matter of fact," she growled, her grip tightening on Shadowfell's haft. "Hate to rush through our reunion, but I hope you're ready for combat. Fast and quiet."


Keaton – Post Eight:
Keaton forced herself to nod acquiescently to Elenor's promise. Such hesitance was uncharacteristic of her, but she felt almost intimidated in the senior Jyraneth Cubi's presence, and therefore cowed into complacency, instead of the typical behavior of rabidly demanding the acquisition of her beloved weapon. Keaton recalled, in the back of her mind, practically revering the Raiders as a child – after all, her eldest sister and brother were employed among its ranks. She remembered how, during a walk home, she randomly interrogated Noah on a wide variety of irrelevant topics regarding his profession, and how he easily tolerated her exuberance. Jasmine received the same treatment on a frequent basis, although she was not bestowed with Noah's near-infinite patience and often ended their conversations by distracting Keaton or simply making an excuse to leave. More or less, the point was made: Keaton loved the Raiders. She wanted to be just like her brother, and her sister, and all those proud warriors who protected Harla'Keth from bad people – that was the simplicity of her motives, as she could not comprehend what was, essentially, heretic-hunting.

And among those Jyraneth Raiders that Keaton idolized and immortalized in her childhood mind was Elenor. While Noah and Jasmine retained unblemished adoration, Keaton was simply bewildered by Elenor's meteoric ascent from Raider to Judicator, the highest rank achievable by any Jyraneth. This was remarkable, unimaginable; it was like a knight serving God becoming a king through devotion and trial alone. While the Judicators were a secretive organization devoted to the protection of Lady Jyraneth herself and remained isolated to the shadows, they commanded respect and authority from all of those of Harla'Keth. Keaton was no different from the rest of the populace in her blind obedience, and Elenor became another subject of her admiration. She was amazed by Elenor.

She thought Elenor had been lost among those killed in Harla'Keth.

Apparently not, Keaton thought, as she was the one to liberate her. When Elenor reported that two guards were approaching, Keaton barely suppressed an indignant snarl. How dare these wretched, backwater Beings in their hick town decide to tarnish and censor her reunion! How dare they imprison her! She would not fucking stand for this.

"Let me handle those guys," Keaton told Elenor.

Most of her disposable knives had been confiscated along with Catastrophe, so she was largely unarmed. This did not mean she was incapable of combat. Snarling and bringing her fists together, Keaton started to conjure up her wing-tentacles in a momentary flurry of yellow and black, transforming the long, chiseled tips into bladed edges. She started to collect the ample darkness that suffused the room, and with that, she charged forward.

The first guard knew something was amiss the moment the door opened, but when he saw the prisoner that was supposed to be bound and subdued in the isolated cell barrel toward him with murder in her eyes, he was convinced that something was definitely, horribly wrong. Before he could whip his sword out of its sheath or scream for assistance, Keaton flung a wing-tentacle forward and decimated his head, watching the darkness condensed within that tendril work in addition to the severing force that sent his head flying from his neck. In the same motion, Keaton whirled around to face the guard's female companion, gesturing with her hand, and watched the shadows swirl and balloon to adopt the gigantic, abstract form of a jackal. In an instant, the creature pounced upon the unfortunate woman guard, smothering her beneath its unnaturally solid, flat form. Any and all screams and cries emitted beneath its mass were swallowed up by the blackness of the solidified shadows, she struggled, she kicked, and eventually, laid still, while Keaton casually inspected herself for any injuries. The darkness fled back to where it belonged, restoring the distorted atmosphere to its former state. Aside from the two dead bodies, one decapitated and one inexplicably asphyxiated, everything was quite undisturbed.

Keaton took a deep, contented breath, satisfied that she had not lost her touch. She gestured for Elenor to follow her.


Yugo – Post Nine:
"I  see your skills haven't left you," Elenor chuckled softly, a suppressed smile on her face. Truly, they had improved, and Katherine's shadowplay was far beyond her own abilities, although she certainly wasn't ready to openly admit such a thing. Katherine was fast, efficient, and ruthless. Everything a Raider was expected to be, Elenor noted. She recognized the look of adoration that mirrored the same look from centuries ago. She was sure that she had the same naivete and lack of knowledge about Elenor's profession that she had then. The world of a Raider was brutal and direct: extermination. It was total black and white; There were the Jyraneth, and there was everything else. And at Jyraneth's behest, the Raiders would fall upon their hapless victims like a thunderbolt, giving no quarter. It was an easy world to fall into and to admire, and Elenor herself secretly wished she were still in that easy-going place. She had not spoken to Katherine often, but she was there to dispose tidbits of wisdom and information to help her on her path. No Jyraneth was ever alone, and Elenor made sure that such a mantra remained true. She recalled one specific instance where she had drawn Katherine aside, and pontificated at length with regards to faith, dogma, and practicality. Pragmatism before adherence, she had instructed. There was no failure in admitting defeat or weakness if it led to a later victory.

The world of a Judicator lay in stark contrast to the open identifiable world of the Raider. Politics, intrigue, cloak and dagger ambitions all wrapped in a shroud of secrecy. There was very little unsanctioned action, as the role was a combination of advisor, investigator, and leader. In the open, they preached the words and dogma that Jyraneth demanded, but in the shadows, they sought to find when such teachings were denied, and where apostasy reared its ugly head. It was an extremely difficult transition to make, and Jyraneth had made her lessons quite clear to Elenor from the moment she was given the position. It was a tough place to be put in, with many enemies and few friends. To consult the Judicator on basic matters, or to be casually genial with them was to readily invite the threat they represented; Death, or worse.

She was unable to hide the look of surprise on her face at finding out Katherine was actually alive. She had been among the least experienced and youngest Raiders in Harla'Keth, and by rights, she should've died. But there she was, tearing into the two Beings with the same reckless fury she had always had. Elenor shuffled her feet. Her faith had been sorely lacking for the past couple of centuries, but maybe this was a gift from the gods. To reveal such a shortcoming probably wouldn't earn her much favor in Katherine's eyes. She elected to keep her affairs a secret unless asked directly. Deep down Elenor had a distinct feeling they both might lie about the past five hundred years. She certainly wasn't proud of the events surrounding her leading up to the Second Fall.

Elenor blinked in the darkness, and, with a wave of her hand, rendered her vision in brilliant shades of blue, the entirety of her surroundings becoming readily apparent. Scanning the area, she stepped over the headless body of one of the guards, paying it no heed, and smiled as she found what she was looking for. A sign blew in the wind, the graphic depiction of a hammer and anvil etched into its surface. "There," she whispered, barely raising her voice above the wind as she pointed out the building in question. "I'll stand watch, dear. And be careful."


Keaton – Post Ten:

Keaton gazed up at the sign to confirm the building, and then nodded affirmatively to Elenor, smiling weakly. She approached the entrance and performed a quick, rudimentary spell over the door that analyzed any potential, hidden wards – none appeared on the scan, but she still remained cautious. Some wards were so complex that they could effectively stay concealed even in the face of exposing spells – and as more spells were invented and made accessible by Beings and other Creatures, they became more commonplace, especially among shopkeepers who ran their businesses in impoverished or troubled locations. Keaton acknowledged that the spell she cast wasn't exactly a very advanced one, seeing as her magical inclinations ran, primarily, in darkness-oriented abilities. While her great versatility and improvisational skill in darkness allowed her to use such spells in unconventional ways, as substitutes for other spells, this was sometimes not adequate.

Keaton tested the doorknob. It was locked. This was certainly adequate protection from an inexperienced Being burglar, but not a moderately-skilled Succubus. Keaton rolled her eyes. Gee, Keaton. However shall I get through this impenetrable defense? Oh wait. I could just break the lock open, she thought sardonically to herself. Wrapping a wing-tentacle around the doorknob, she used another one, sharpened to a razorblade's edge, and pierced the keyhole. One twist and the lock clicked affirmatively.

Keaton nudged the door open and entered swiftly. The interior of the blacksmith's was as Keaton predicted it to be: dilapidated, but cozy and equipped with the essentials for crafting primitive weaponry. Keaton recognized the ubiquitous anvil and the furnace nearby. Hanging on the walls were a wide variety of completed weapons, some of them for sale and some of them for display, from swords to shields to other items. Finally, Keaton noticed Catastrophe resting indecisively on a table, as though the blacksmith was uncertain what to do with such a valuable weapon and placed it there for safekeeping. Gleefully, Keaton retrieved Catastrophe, cradling it in her arms almost affectionately, and was about to turn and walk out of the shop when she noticed a few daggers and other assorted knives on the opposite wall.

Ooh, shinies! Keaton thought, and smirked to herself. She decided that those examples would be proper compensation for the knives she had lost when the villagers confiscated her weapons.

None of those weapons seemed magical, but she decided that if she personally imbibed them with darkness magic, they could be of some use to her. Without a hint of regret Keaton snatched up as many daggers as could be considered practical, sheathing them in the pouches of a carrying belt she found among the equipment sold near the weapons. Looping the belt around her waist, Keaton examined herself distastefully, realizing how poorly the brown leather contrasted with her black and white clothing, and sighed. She'd work on organizing her appearance later. Right now she was probably gone for longer than originally intended, and Elenor was most likely worried.

However, Keaton was not above vandalizing the poor blacksmith's store. Before she left, she decided to deal her personal brand of sick humor by lodging the very edge of one of her new knives into the wall, where Catastrophe once hung, and dragging it in swift, smooth strokes, almost like how an artist would wield a brush. Flakes and chips of wood dropped to the floor until Keaton finally finished maiming the wall, and cheerfully departed the store.

Keaton opened the door with the same clandestine silence as she entered, gingerly closing it behind her, and approached Elenor. "Sorry that took so long. I took the opportunity to grab myself some presents," Keaton said, patting her belt and hugging Catastrophe to her body again.

Meanwhile, back in the store, a large symbol was carved into the wall in rigid divots: of an angular shape, curved like a wicked scythe, the sigil of the Jyraneth.

Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on October 02, 2008, 08:08:52 PM
Ah, the last story was much well-received than the first one.

If it means anything, I liked your first story. And not just that I didn't personally find it repulsive, it really was good. I meant to comment waaay before this, but never got around to it :S

And i'll get working on this new story when I can carve out a chunk of time for it :U

Before I read this, is it as grim as Yugo's story?

EDIT: That's "grim" as in "grotesque", no insult implied.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 03, 2008, 04:15:54 AM
Before I read this, is it as grim as Yugo's story?

EDIT: That's "grim" as in "grotesque", no insult implied.

Depends. There are no extensive torture scenes, for example. The first post by Yugo is very violent, and the eighth post has Keaton killing two subordinates in a less graphic manner.

Quote from: techmaster-glitch on October 02, 2008, 09:33:36 PM
If it means anything, I liked your first story. And not just that I didn't personally find it repulsive, it really was good. I meant to comment waaay before this, but never got around to it :S

And i'll get working on this new story when I can carve out a chunk of time for it :U

Well thank you! :) I really appreciate the fact you enjoyed it.

Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on October 03, 2008, 06:35:23 AM
Depends. There are no extensive torture scenes, for example. The first post by Yugo is very violent, and the eighth post has Keaton killing two subordinates in a less graphic manner.

Violence doesn't bug me so much - soul-slaying is something I have a bit of a problem with, though.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 03, 2008, 06:37:29 AM

Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on October 03, 2008, 06:35:23 AM
Depends. There are no extensive torture scenes, for example. The first post by Yugo is very violent, and the eighth post has Keaton killing two subordinates in a less graphic manner.

Violence doesn't bug me so much - soul-slaying is something I have a bit of a problem with, though.

You're in luck; there is no soul-slaying.

It seems to be well enough written (notwithstanding that Yugo hasn't italicised his character's thoughts, which makes it difficult to follow) but I can't honestly say I'm too thrilled by the subject matter.  It's a bit too bleak for my taste, at least for the first couple of postings.  I'll see if I have time to finish it later.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 03, 2008, 06:57:12 AM
It seems to be well enough written (notwithstanding that Yugo hasn't italicised his character's thoughts, which makes it difficult to follow) but I can't honestly say I'm too thrilled by the subject matter.  It's a bit too bleak for my taste, at least for the first couple of postings.  I'll see if I have time to finish it later.

The italics is my fault. When I copy-pasted this from the document I used to compile all the posts, I didn't have the decency to add any HTML tags aside from who authored the posts. As for the bleakness, that's alright. I'm still glad you thought the RP was well-written. :3

Still, unfortunately, the bleakness persists for the majority of this excerpt - well, save for the final post in which Keaton goes on a stealing-spree through the blacksmith's. I enjoyed writing that scene so much that I think my glee became as contagious as Keaton's.

The town Keaton in which Keaton was imprisoned was based off of the town depicted in Lars von Trier's "Dogville," which was a helluva bleak movie. :B

Sorry for the double-post, moderators, but I finally finished this! I was so excited that I needed to post this.

Everyone, this is the first chapter of Keaton's backstory.

Obligatory Disclaimer: To anyone who has read Tapewolf's Future History, can you spot the cameo?

See, Tape, this is why you shouldn't lend me your characters.
Obligatory Warning: Now this here is going to be one hell of a bumpy ride. Lots of violence, cursing, and generally angst and unhappiness. If I were to rate this story, I would probably slap a big ol' R for Rebma right on it.

This chapter has some violence, some bad violence, but it leaves most of the really bad stuff up to the imagination. Every chapter, I'll put up a new warning telling you guys what to expect, since this will get progressively worse.

Author's Note: I've been meaning to write this baby for a while, but only recently has Keaton's history been fleshed out entirely. I may improvise a bit as time goes on, adding characters and moving in directions not previously planned, but such a thing happens occasionally. Sometimes the writer is led by their creations, not the other way around.

Please enjoy, guys—be sure to give me your opinions!

---

"Are you ready?"

"As ready as I ever will be. Are the firebombs prepared?"

There was a shuffling sound, followed by a thin, slicing noise like something being unzipped. Solid shapes were being rolled and clinked together like ceramic wine glasses, just before that zipping noise returned, silencing the incessant rustling of those shapes.

"All present and accounted for."

"Everything's in order. We will launch the attack. Everyone in position. Remember your orders and the procedures.

"Show no mercy."


Gamaliel hated the dark. Given his reputation for misfortune, he shouldn't have been surprised when he was assigned as a patrolman on a particularly dark night. On top of that, both of his heads ached terribly, to the point he could no longer concentrate without growing deeply anxious.

After hours of fruitless and monotonous patrolling, generally wandering within the vicinity of the base camp, Gamaliel lost track of time, and could no longer use the moon to dictate the approximate hour. Layers and layers of clouds asphyxiated where the moon would usually hover in the sky, eclipsing most of its pearlescent visage and suffusing the land beneath with a disturbing, smothering darkness. There were no stars. They had all disappeared, popped and fizzled like light bulbs. All that Gamaliel could use as illumination, aside from the meager light provided by the lantern he carried using his prehensile tail, was the thin shaft of moonlight he could see lacerating the night, radiating in a slanted line from the corners of the clouds. At one point he decided he couldn't endure the night any longer and just drifted away, without any regard to his current position.

Using that convenient spade of diaphanous light for navigation, Gamaliel ambled away from the camp, keeping his whiplike tail maneuvered in front of him so he could use his lantern unobstructed.

The lake was in the center of a large halo of trees and other, assorted plants in the forests, fringing the periphery of the grove. In the shadows of the night, the water filling the lake looked like a flat blanket of impenetrable tar. Under normal circumstances, the lake would be clear and pristine enough to be used as a mirror, but tonight, Gamaliel couldn't shake the undeniable visual of taint he construed from looking at the lake.

He felt almost uncomfortable delving his hands into of the water, until the moment he quickly removed his hands and splashed the water onto his face. His second head chirred demandingly until Gamaliel threw a generous amount of water onto its face as well. His second head spluttered and cried indignantly, almost with an infantile simplicity, but Gamaliel focused on filling the water bucket he brought with him.

Gamaliel was part of a subspecies of Mythos whose numbers had dwindled over the past few millennia, to the point individuals were considered remarkable. Gamaliel was a drab gray, automatically making him visually inferior to the magical menagerie comprising far more attractive races and variations of Mythos, and had the lower body of a four-legged beast. He was two-headed, like the other members of his race. The first head, which served as the primary head, was crowned by a thick mane of slightly-darker gray hair and furnished with a birthmark, resembling an abstract teardrop of blue crookedly hanging off the outer corner of that head's single, black eye. The second head was left utterly bald and plain save for an identical teardrop marking in purple.

Most two-headed Mythos were born with their second heads, but members of Gamaliel's race, either as a genetic throwback or the product of simply being neglected in magical evolution, all developed their secondary heads sometime into adulthood, like the way a Cubi would grow their head-wings.

Until Gamaliel could fully control its actions, the second head was just an unintelligent adjunct. Part of him thought the experience was almost like raising a baby, while the other half of him wanted nothing more than to decapitate the cancerous little lump thriving off of his body and his mind. Because of its recent manifestation, the secondary head was indistinguishable in speech, could only manage rather simple, painfully bestial thinking skills, and became excited and distracted easily.

Gamaliel held the bucket, filled to the brim with water, over his head, and listened with sadistic satisfaction as his other head cried out as though it was drowning. Spluttering a little and smoothing back his mane, Gamaliel rested the bucket back on the grass, and waited to regain relative focus. He closed his eye and sighed. Beside him, the magical lights caged inside of the lantern's chamber swirled and churned together.

Gamaliel started to swim down from his slightly incoherent state, but he didn't feel confident with immediately returning to his patrol. 'Maybe I should just stay here,' Gamaliel thought, reaching behind his primary head's neck and scratching an itch there. His second head seemed thoroughly engrossed by something off in the distance, but since anything interesting and shiny captured its limited attention, he paid this phenomenon no mind. For once the second head was a little subdued in its emotions, so Gamaliel was a little relieved.

Gamaliel was a little disappointed that it was too late for any fireflies to appear. If any did show up, he'd at least have something to watch. He remained there, for a moment, until something peculiar occurred. The emotional equivalent of a bomb dropping and igniting in his stomach rocked his nerves, almost as a precursor to the suddenly violent reaction of his second head. His second head's only eye was narrowed into a thin slit, and it was brandishing its teeth viciously, trying to assert control over the rest of Gamaliel's body. Only a tremendous effort on Gamaliel's part kept his body anchored in place, and, snarling, he scooped up another fraction of water from the lake and flung it onto his second head. His second head coughed and sputtered, but in spite of this, it persisted in its unusual behavior, growling like an infuriated dog.

"Stop!" Gamaliel snarled, knowing that the second head could only comprehend simple language at its current state. Both of his heads were starting to hurt again, and he couldn't care less about whatever his second head was growling at. Gamaliel assumed that the offender was just a feral fox or a bear, since there were plenty of them in the mountain range.

Just as he lost his temper and was about to shout, he felt something very cold press against the side of his throat. Gamaliel froze. His second head fell quiet.

Someone was holding a blade to Gamaliel's throat.

"Don't scream," an unknown voice, disjointed and hollow, spoke from behind Gamaliel, "And keep that thing quiet."

Gamaliel didn't dare to crane his head around to look at his assailant. He tried to remain cooperative, and tried to keep his second head placated by transmitting as many calming, peaceful mental images to its brain as possible. When his life was in jeopardy, this took more mental discipline than Gamaliel had the capacity to maintain. His second head seemed aware of this, and tried to look at the person behind Gamaliel's body out of the corner of its eye, instantly projecting the image of his attacker into his unsuspecting mind.

Gamaliel saw it displayed in his mind in brilliant clarity: an image of two eldritch eyes, eerily vacant, staring back at his second head, and the image of a white, angular symbol imprinted on his captor's forehead.

Gamaliel felt his eye widen involuntarily, his features petrifying in cold recognition. His first instinct was to yell, to alert the people back at the camp of the impending danger, but he didn't get the chance. There was a rasping sound and a brief, sharp flash of pain, and the knife and the arm supporting him was gone. Suddenly feeling weak, Gamaliel fell forward – only a tremendous effort on his part prevented him from toppling into the lake - staring into the unreflective lake. He couldn't breathe. He didn't hear any complaints from his second head; some delirious fraction of his barely-working mind appreciated this silence.

Imperceptible ripples distorted the atramental waters, cold moonlight wavering along the thin ringlets. Something dark and blue, barely noticeable in the darkness, was dripping into the surface of the lake.

And like his blood vanishing beneath the surface of the water, Gamaliel followed shortly thereafter.


Gamaliel's body was thrown into the lake, disappearing underneath the ink-black surface in a flourishing upswell of water. His assailant stayed until Gamaliel's cadaver had faded from sight altogether, then he grunted in apparent satisfaction and drew his dagger along a rag of black-matter he seemingly pulled up from the shadows around his feet. He smeared away the ichorous Mythos-blood using that scrap of elastic material in a smooth, practiced motion.

One of his silhouetted companions spoke from the darkness. The only indication of the newcomer's presence was the dim, whitewashed glow of his eyes and the flashing symbol on his forehead, a duplicate of the one on the first figure's brow. "Follow me. Enough stalling, Mordrith. We can't take out all the trash," the other figure encouraged, spinning away and sprinting out of sight.

The one named Mordrith scoffed slightly, the sound registering as a resonant, indistinct noise, and made the rag in his hand vanish into black mist that quickly evaporated into the shadows. Lowering his blade, Mordrith swiftly followed his comrade, unimpeded.

The lake was eerily still.


Sija was in a deep sleep, her thoughts swimming and swirling in plum-colored twists of light, binding her dreams together. She could see herself spiraling with the stars, hovering in the heavens and floating among the planets and the moon and everything good and glorious that was suspended in the sky, wholly engrossed in the depths of her somnolence-spurred imagination -

Sija?

-she didn't have a care in the world as she danced, her tail seething with flaring pulses of green energy as it whipped and arched like an electrical cord behind her body. Little balls of concentrated light, those condensed stars, were spinning up her body, mingling with the emerald glow suffusing her form –

Sija!

That word was the equivalent of a balloon bursting right beside Sija's head, nails down a chalkboard, or any amalgamation of equally obnoxious noises. The spectacular, star-laden universe surrounding Sija's form disintegrated, the stars blinking out instantaneously in one, unanimous flash just before they perished, relinquishing her mind and allowing it to bob to the surface of her consciousness. Her wide, owlish eyes snapped open as she felt long, clever fingers seize her by the scruff of her neck and hoist her into the air. She was so disoriented, so shocked by this terrible disruption, that she did not resist the unknown grip until she came face-to-face with her antagonist.

The irate visage of her master was glowering directly into her eyes. He was a basilisk lizard, lithe and lean, with emerald green scales. True to his species, the sole decoration to his scalp aside from his head-wings was a long, ornate crest, and his claws were disproportionately large in comparison to the rest of his body. His feet were most especially huge, with bony, webbed toes. The dark green, feathery wings on his back were identical to the diminutive set on his head – the only feature disturbing the symmetry was the fluorescent green symbol emblazoned on the top joint of his right wing, of a stylized spiral flanked by triangular slashes.

Sija herself had been purposefully designed in her master's image; particularly to resemble a cartoonish caricature of a reptile. As a Warp-Aci, her tail was appropriately long and flat yet curled at the tip, probably the only characteristic she possessed that threw off her similarity to a chameleon. As far as Warp-Aci went, she was impractical, notable as a creature intended for luxury. When her master desired companionship, he had summoned Sija from the darkness, and while he preferred to lavish her with attention and treat her like a beloved pet, she proved herself to be invaluable as a messenger and scout.

"Um, hello, Constantine!" Sija forced out cheerfully.

The basilisk lizard scowled. "Sija," he said bluntly, "Didn't I tell you to look for Gamaliel?"

"Aw, come on, Constantine. You know Gamaliel's always wandering off. It's no big deal."

"So you just assumed that you could disregard my orders and slack off, is that right?"

"No, I didn't! That's -"

Constantine frowned, deciding to approach this issue from a different angle. He asked rhetorically, "What did I tell you to do?"

"...Find Gamaliel." Sija shifted uncomfortably. She really wished Constantine would let her go.

"And what is it you were doing?"

"Sleeping."

"Now what is it you should do?"

"Find Gamaliel."

Sija was finally rewarded by Constantine releasing her neck, allowing the beleaguered Warp-Aci to go free. Gingerly rubbing the back of her neck with a webbed paw, Sija rose into the air until she was floating over Constantine's head. "Good girl," he said condescendingly, then jabbed his finger toward the forest, as though indicating her next destination. "This time, I want you to return with Gamaliel. That is an order."

If Sija had a mouth, she most certainly would have been scowling. Instead, she narrowed her vibrant green eyes and looked irately at Constantine, bristling. "You're such a jerk, Constantine. Why do you always have to ruin my -"

Sija felt something in her head snap, like a brittle twig breaking in two, a little sound that no one else could hear. Twisting around in mid-air, so she was facing the entrance to the forest, Sija stared in abject horror. Her bizarre behavior did not go unnoticed by Constantine, who frowned in apparent concern and opened his mouth, presumably to ask her if she was alright. Before he could utter a syllable, Sija felt all her words spill out in a frenzied babble.

"Constantine! Constantine, there's someone here! I think it might be-!"

But before Sija could identify these apparitional invaders, she felt herself go very silent. All her words were wound in a knot around her throat. In spite of her silent imploring, her efforts to dislodge this metaphorical obstruction, she could not speak, and she could only gaze in terror, her body stone-still. She did not turn her head to observe Constantine's reaction, but judging by the muted grunt of terror issued from his direction, he clearly shared her sentiments.

The bomb was flying at them like a meteorite, belching smoke in a guttural, ugly stream from its rapidly burning wick, the bomb's smoke an oily stain even in the near-darkness.

The instant the bomb impacted the earth, the wick and the flame surrounding the bomb disappeared, that one trickle of amber light vanishing on the spot, and it exploded.

The earth, the sky, the trees, everything vanished, drowned out as white light expanded. Sija finally felt herself react in a nanosecond; she screamed and tried to fly away, or possibly teleport Constantine and herself to safety, but the light chased her down, ultimately blinding and burning and agonizing, and then, at last, faded into darkness.


When Constantine awoke, the first sensation he experienced was the feeling of damp soil, insinuating that he was on the ground. He could feel very little else other than an unusual heat in the otherwise cold, cold night, and that was what profoundly disturbed him.

At first he expected that movement would be met with resistance, but when he stirred in place, his muscles were a lot more compliant than he anticipated – until unbearable pain flooded his body and he nearly shrieked, this agony somehow forcing his body to react when simple discipline did not.

His eyes opened, only to realize that half his vision was blocked out. What remained of his depth perception was mottled and darkened. And as his half-blinded gaze ventured downward, he noticed that the soil was befouled with a wide, dark halo. He was probably analyzing his situation far, far too languidly, even with his escalating panic. Constantine clutched at the ground and tried to turn himself around; he steadfastly tried to ignore the pain and rouse his uncooperative wing-tentacles from their hibernation. He finally succeeded in lifting his body, but any and all triumph gleaned from that one small victory, that one assertion in the face of agony, disintegrated promptly as he felt his skin split open.

Constantine was screaming incoherently. His hands went for his abdomen and tried to stifle the bleeding in the wound. He was in such terrible pain; he was so focused on holding his hands to his wound that he wasn't unaware of the soft thud of advancing footsteps. "Sija! SIJA!" Constantine screeched, trying, blindly, to summon his absent Warp-Aci, or for any assistance. "ANYONE?! Where -"

"They won't come."

That voice, spoken in such a chilling intonation, made Constantine freeze in place. In spite of his anxiety, the malice enunciated in every syllable of the sentence motivated Constantine to overcome his fear and stare in dumbstruck horror at the approaching figure. In his mottled sight, the figure was nearly indistinguishable, just a silhouette against a wavering orange backdrop.

'Orange?'

Constantine blinked and then gasped as his vision automatically cleared, almost as though the following revelation shocked him out of delirium. The camp was consumed by roaring flame but was inexplicably isolated to the clearing, as the fire was not rampantly devouring the trees and spreading to the foliage thereafter. The soil was pockmarked with giant craters and cleft with jagged divots, like a many-limbed monster had rampaged through the clearing with its stampeding feet and teeth and claws. The bodies of some of Constantine's second-in-commands and subordinates were littering the ground, and as Constantine exercised his senses while they were still intact, he could not feel Sija anywhere.

Standing around the blazing camp were several black figures, sleek and featureless like polished mannequins. They were seemingly naked, save for the rubbery black that clung to their outlines like layers of second skin. This pitch-black, lusterless skin coated them all from head to toe, enveloping even the individual strands of their hair with inhumanly accurate precision. The monochromatic monotony was tarnished only by the splotches of white intermittently splashing the forms on their brows and on randomized parts of their bodies. They were almost beautiful, but ultimately terrifying, and issuing such a wide variety of emotions as they turned their merciless gazes toward Constantine – animosity, disgust, hatred – that he was overwhelmed. All Constantine could see were those white eyes, glaring and penetrating and accusatory in a thousand different ways, piercing him from every direction across the camp, driving him into the ground.

Constantine felt a painful tug on the end of his head-wing. Fearfully, he swung his head up and looked into the face of his captor, the figure who had spoken to him before. Only then, Constantine completely realized his appearance.

Elongated, elegant features, such as his erect ears and pointed muzzle, defined his face, even with most of the defining elements muted by a mask of skintight darkness. Before he could resume any of his analysis, his eyes were automatically drawn to the symbol on the figure's forehead.

The marking was carved out of sacrosanct light, dimly illuminating the black-masked face of its owner. It was a bent angle, its tip curved outward like a wicked blade – an abstract scythe.

Constantine's eyes widened, and suddenly he knew. Oh FUCK, no--!

Another black-clad figure, distinctly canine, approached. Unlike the first figure, this one was most definitely female, and extraordinarily, almost grotesquely tall. She, too, bore that horrendous marking on her forehead, as well as on her bare abdomen. The female looked down at Constantine, and while she could not show it in her face, the nauseating emission of disgust radiating off of her betrayed her true emotions.

"Psh. He's still alive? Should I take care of him?" Constantine flinched.

"No, no," the male figure answered nonchalantly, "I have another idea for him."

The male inclined his head toward Constantine, and Constantine could almost make out the contours of an apathetic smile on the male's muzzle. Before he could unconsciously examine this uncharacteristic display of mirth, Constantine heard something seethe and crackle quite audibly – too audibly and too closely to be mistaken for the raucous roaring of the flames engulfing the camp. He felt something crawl around his ankles, an unbearable offense in his hypersensitive state, and glanced down, only to feel his wildly-beating heart catch in his throat.

The shadows around the male's feet were coming to life.

"Can't let good livestock go to waste, after all," the male said.

The shadows swept upward in a fluid deluge, transitioning instantaneously from foggy antimatter to a pitch black, virtual tapestry of darkness. Arching through the air, it swirled and cascaded in abstract curls, teeming and writhing in a way just barely visible, as though the blanket of darkness was woven from thousands of shadowy apparitions. Before Constantine could react, before he could blink, before he could scream, the upswell of tangible darkness crashed down on him with an enormous, resonant sound equivalent to a thunderclap.


It was the end of everything.

---

Well, that was a doozy of a first chapter. Hope you guys enjoy it, in spite of the horrific subject matter, everyone. :3
Fun Author's Notes:
- Originally, Constantine was going to be disemboweled. I decided that was too violent so I cut that down a bit.
- Constantine went through several designs; he was a kangaroo, a jerboa, and a mongoose before I decided on a species.
- I really love Sija and her chameleon-like design.

It was quite interesting, and very well written; I am looking forward to the next chapter. Also, the person who (apparently) kills Constantine got some neat powers. Shadow Crusher! >:D

Hmm. Interesting.

A bit scattered, but that's ok - I expect that a lot of the questions raised by this will get answered in later chapters.

I hope.

I've seen some of this before, but it's good to finally see the thing begin.  I have a few grammatical questions, though:

1. "On top of that, his head – both of them"
Granted this is an odd situation, but shouldn't it be 'heads'?

2. "like the way a Cubi would grow its head-wings."
Firstly, I'd have used "their", though this may be a US/UK-ism.  Secondly, the way it is phrased seems to imply it is voluntary.  Consider "like the way a Cubi would suddenly grow head-wings." which IMHO neatly fixes both.

Quote from: Ren Gaulen on October 04, 2008, 12:11:27 PM
It was quite interesting, and very well written; I am looking forward to the next chapter. Also, the person who (apparently) kills Constantine got some neat powers. Shadow Crusher! >:D

Thank you very much, Ren! >:3 I'm glad you liked it.

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on October 04, 2008, 12:15:14 PM
Hmm. Interesting.

A bit scattered, but that's ok - I expect that a lot of the questions raised by this will get answered in later chapters.

I hope.

Trust me, everything'll be answered. I don't really like leaving questions unanswered, anyway.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 04, 2008, 12:41:00 PM
I've seen some of this before, but it's good to finally see the thing begin.  I have a few grammatical questions, though:

1. "On top of that, his head – both of them"
Granted this is an odd situation, but shouldn't it be 'heads'?

2. "like the way a Cubi would grow its head-wings."
Firstly, I'd have used "their", though this may be a US/UK-ism.  Secondly, the way it is phrased seems to imply it is voluntary.  Consider "like the way a Cubi would suddenly grow head-wings." which IMHO neatly fixes both.

Thanks, Tape :3 As for the grammatical errors, I fixed them according to your suggestions. Thanks for pointing them out.

One word Keaton: FANTASTIC.... that is all

I don't think I ever mentioned that the fact the guy is called 'Constantine' cracks me up:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=J5mnWQi59g4   (No, this is not the infamous 'eye' cutscene)

One question, though: The clan markings.  I never did decide where Mordrith's is (probably on his arm or something) - presumably the ones on their foreheads are for show rather than the real ones?  IIRC the Jyraneth tend to cut or brand decorative markings on themselves, so that seems likely.

Quote from: Paladin Sheppard on October 04, 2008, 12:59:18 PM
One word Keaton: FANTASTIC.... that is all

:tighthug Thank you so much, Pal! :3

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 04, 2008, 01:15:03 PM
I don't think I ever mentioned that the fact the guy is called 'Constantine' cracks me up:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=J5mnWQi59g4   (No, this is not the infamous 'eye' cutscene)

One question, though: The clan markings.  I never did decide where Mordrith's is (probably on his arm or something) - presumably the ones on their foreheads are for show rather than the real ones?  IIRC the Jyraneth tend to cut or brand decorative markings on themselves, so that seems likely.

Here I thought people would think of the Keanu Reeves-Constantine... XD

As for the clan markings on the Jyraneths' foreheads, it's just for show. The big female Raider's marking next to her navel was visible, after all. The male Raider's wasn't visible because it's on his back.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 04, 2008, 01:15:03 PM
I don't think I ever mentioned that the fact the guy is called 'Constantine' cracks me up:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=J5mnWQi59g4   (No, this is not the infamous 'eye' cutscene)

Interesting. I like the little touches - the growing brandy, the plant around the cloven hoof of the seat, the shadows...

The way the girl kept finishing his sentences, however, sadly jarred. Mostly because it brought into mind a scene from Round The Horne...

Something like...
"So you'll..."
"Yes."
"And..."
"Certainly."
"And we should..."
"Of course."
"And you'll..."
"Definitely."

*pause*
"So, what was it we agreed to do?"
"I've absolutely no idea."

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on October 04, 2008, 03:55:46 PM
Interesting. I like the little touches - the growing brandy, the plant around the cloven hoof of the seat, the shadows...
The way the girl kept finishing his sentences, however, sadly jarred. Mostly because it brought into mind a scene from Round The Horne...

Heh.  I remember that, or something like it.  I didn't actually want to turn this into a discussion of Thief, awesome though the game is.

I always took it - at least, having seen what happens after Garrett gives him the eye (NSFW), that Viktoria was interceding to prevent Constantine from slipping and revealing something he should not.  It's always been one of my favourite cutscenes, that one, and I've watched it dozens of times, not least to try and figure out how the gestures were so realistic (my conclusion is that the silhouettes are actual video footage superimposed on the animation).

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 04, 2008, 04:17:55 PM
I always took it - at least, having seen what happens after Garrett gives him the eye (NSFW), that Viktoria was interceding to prevent Constantine from slipping and revealing something he should not. 

Ah. That makes more sense.

Some nice haunted imagery going on there, though.

Well.. I've got nothing bad to say.  Absolutely nothing.  Well told and leaves me interested in what happens next.  Keep 'em coming Keats. :)

Thanks to everyone for your feedback on the prologue of Watch the Shadows Burn. :) Hopefully some questions will be released in the next chapter, since a lot of them are things I can answer without much deliberation.

I'm not finished with the second chapter of Keaton's backstory yet since I'm still planning some things out - particularly the opening and some things in-between. Until the second chapter's released, here's something to hold everyone over. It's something I've been threatening Tapewolf with for a while which is both a thank-you gift for all his work with Future History, which Keaton's been part of for a long time, and a late birthday gift.

It was whipped up and totally improvised, so it's a little nonsensical. Not to mention it's based off of Daryil, so it doesn't make a lick of sense. I tried to get Daryil relatively in-character, but I was more languid in the writing and going more by impulse and the most ridiculous things I could imagine. Hence, Daryil isn't really all that in-character. And obviously, reactions in this story are very unrealistic because this is Daryil. Some aspects of the story might be humorous to others, but I tend to not write humor because I used to write some seriously crappy stuff that barely qualified as comedy. Enjoy.

He Never Ate Another Candy Bar Again
Rating: Oh, I'd say PG or PG-13 since there's nothing objectionable but a bit of foul language.

---

One day, Daryil was walking down one of the corridors of the arctic base he frequented, enthusiastically unwrapping a candy bar. Although it was not a necessity for Cubi to eat, Daryil had an acknowledged weakness for sweets and candies, particularly the kind that would produce a popping flavor that reminded him of how a Being's brain reacted when they were confronted with something particularly unpleasant. This was why Daryil was very disappointed when the factory that invented his favorite candy was foreclosed four hundred years ago, but he found momentary gratification when he instigated an uprising among the underpaid, uninsured dwarves that formerly maintained the factory.

After a very tragic accident in which a few eggs were broken and some of the ingredients of his candy had actually come to life and rampaged around downtown Zinvth, thus requiring for most of the residents to have their memories erased, Daryil was forbidden from ever partaking in that particular candy ever again. He found a replacement shortly thereafter, but he was still pissed at Jakob for confiscating all of his beloved confectionaries.

Damn that Pettersohn.

Damn him to hell.

Anyway, Daryil was walking down the corridor, when, just as he finished unwrapping the candy bar, carelessly discarding the cover in front of him, a doppelganger of his beautiful self materialized before his very eyes. Daryil was quite taken aback by this phenomenon, especially since he wasn't the one responsible – not unless he had been cloning people in his sleep again (during the few occasions he actually slept).

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Daryil demanded, and then paused meaningfully, his eyes raking over his carbon copy. "And are you free tonight?"

"Maybe later. But I digress; don't be alarmed," the other Daryil said, lifting his hand in a calming gesture, "What I am about to tell you may change your life."

"Shoot," Daryil retorted calmly.

"I am from the future."

"Really?"

"Yes, and I have come to warn you of an impending tragedy – one that will quake the foundations of your very being if it takes place. Ever since it had occurred on this fateful day, I had never been the same. I had been a shadow of my former self. And now, I have come to prevent the same tragedy from befalling you, my past self."

Daryil was speechless. This was incredible! If what this duplicate was saying was truthful, then this could have a catastrophic impact on his life! Somewhat hesitantly, Daryil inquired further, taking an apprehensive step toward the wizened prophet, "What can I do to prevent this tragedy from occurring?"

"Do not take another step forward."

"What?" Daryil asked, and was unable to stop himself from slipping on the very candy wrapper he had thrown away a few moments ago.

After flipping in the air, performing a very impressive and outrageous defiance of gravity that was, before then, only possible on the moon, Daryil hit the floor. Once he had recuperated from a moment of agony and indignity, Daryil sat upright and glared accusatorily at the other Daryil. "THAT was your soul-shattering tragedy?!" he exclaimed.

The other Daryil grinned around the candy bar he had surreptitiously stolen from his youthful counterpart, and then regally lifted his middle finger. With a flash of light that reverberated throughout the luminescent hallway, he vanished.

As I've said before, it's pretty cool.  I was going to suggest you change the thread title, but it looks like you've sorted that.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 17, 2008, 06:21:21 PM
As I've said before, it's pretty cool.  I was going to suggest you change the thread title, but it looks like you've sorted that.

I totally forgot about the thread title. :c I remembered it only after I checked the 'Who's Online' page.

<snicker> It's very... erm... Daryil.

Very Daryil :3 that was great Keats  :P

Thanks to llearch for unlocking this topic! :3 Hopefully I'll update this more frequently. Either way, here's chapter one (chapter two, if you count the prologue) of Keaton's backstory. I finished it a few days ago. I hope you all enjoy it. This will be updated with a proofread version in the future. The prologue will be updated as well once I improve its descriptions.

Warning: Nothing objectionable other than some really creepy mental images. I don't write creepy well. Bleh. So it's either G for Gee or PG for Pai-Gon.

Author's Notes: Not much happens in this chapter; it's all just a bunch of pretty descriptions and the introduction of our star character.

Uh, and no questions from the last chapter have been answered yet. :< Sorry, guys. I thought this chapter was going to be longer, but I decided to make it more accessible. For good background music, listen to Sleep (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8kgu6rf0Ek) by Godspeed You Black Emperor!.

Most of this chapter was inspired by Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, which has been inspiring me to write again.

---

Part One: Childhood
Chapter One: They Don't Sleep Anymore on the Beach

Katherine's big brother had told her a story.

The story was a sad and terrifying one, of a moth-goddess. She was beloved by her subordinates and beautiful, and was planning on populating Furrae, in the earliest stages of its development at the hands of the Gods, with her brethren. The beating of her iridescent wings alone created miracles. By soaring over the impoverished lands of Creatures abused, persecuted, and neglected by Being oppressors, she could make all manner of wealth, materialized in the form of precious stones, glimmering coins, and gold, rain upon the dilapidated buildings. Those ramshackle buildings kissed by the gold that rained from the sky became castles.

Yet, she had been divested of her immortal privileges after an unknown transgression. Regardless of the severity of this indiscretion, she was punished by having all her children – the moth-people – murdered by the God of All Gods.

For an eternity, she would be condemned to the ghastly visage of a moth monster's body. The magnificent colors that bedecked her wings withered and died, leaving her wings as barren as her body. The former goddess would never able to conceive or have children, with her anatomy as disfigured as it was. After all, how could a diseased monster give birth to a healthy baby? Wishes and dreams were not enough to bring the moth-monster's hope of revitalizing her former family.

Katherine found the conclusion of the tale to be particularly horrible. In order to fertilize her body, the moth-monster would find children unprotected by their parents and eat them alive. On rare occasions of near-success, she would digest the bones and clean out the waste created by the unnecessary parts, and void the remains in the form of an egg. However, the offspring encapsulated in that egg would always be stillborn scum or mutilated wretches that would die not long after birth.

At that point, Katherine was stunned into silence. Her brother immediately reassured her that the story was nothing but mythology, and that there was no evidence that could support the existence of a living, breathing moth-monstrosity. He would have elaborated, but he was called away in the next moment; their mother needed him to help clean the dinner table.

Later that night, Katherine was asked by her mother to go outside and extinguish one of the decorative lamps illuminating the house's exterior. Although afraid of the dark, Katherine agreed and walked outside, approaching the vessel hanging from its customary bronze chain, only to pause and recoil with horror. A swarm of moths was orbiting the lantern, gravitating toward the warm, magical pulse emitted from beneath the colorful glass. Burned into their furry backs were the outlines of faded skulls, staring at her from betwixt their buzzing wings.

Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, Katherine reached over and swatted the moths away, then terminated the spell keeping the lantern aflame. She dashed inside the house without a second's thought, staring at her hand as though it was contaminated.

Later that night, she fortified her bed with every stuffed animal in her room, surrounding herself with a protective barrier of plush companions. Animals of a peculiarly spherical shape, little cotton-stuffed recreations of characters ubiquitous in her city, and other shapes and creatures crafted from pleasing pastels and soft fabrics and adorable faces garlanded her bed, all vigilant with their unblinking bead eyes. Katherine reasoned that no monster would dare attack her with so many witnesses, and since stuffed animals couldn't sleep, that meant she would have a constant arrangement of scouts. She liked concocting the purposes each strategically placed plush would serve as she tucked them into every corner of her room.

After a good struggle, Katherine found herself drifting to sleep. To an extent, the wall of stuffed animals served its purpose – she felt so comfortable, ensconced in her bed's luxurious sheets and flanked on all sides by her precious toys - that the fear of being so vulnerable in the darkness could only go so far in encouraging her to remain awake. At last, she surrendered, closing her eyes.

Outside, one by one, the white lights that bathed the monochrome city of Harla'keth vanished, as though they were extinguished by the ballooning breath of the great God himself.


She dreamt of the moth that night.

Aside from periodic reprieves deceptively precipitating each nightmare, the moth kept visiting her for the rest of the week.


Katherine was a very demure child. Small, lanky, the tiniest in her generally diminutive family; a jackal like her mother, but with her father's larger ears and tail. She was most unusual in her coloration, having bright yellow fur, complemented by her sandy-blonde hair and muted by a slightly subdued shade of creamy yellow smeared around her muzzle, trailing down her belly and along the underside of her voluminous tail. A stylized, largely unpredictable pattern of black curls and jagged lines and stripes and waves accentuated Katherine's form – the only aspects of her markings she was able to memorize were the two crescents resting over her big brown eyes like a raccoon's abstract mask, and the mismatched patterns on her hands.

Like almost all residents of nobility in Harla'keth, Katherine was born with a pair of leathery, bat-like wings (although hers had tiny claws on the upper knobs). Katherine was told she would grow a second pair on top of her head like her family when she reached adulthood, but she wasn't sure that was necessary. She liked her wings. They made her significant.

She already understood the importance of having wings, of being born a Cubi, in her family and her clan and her city in general – those without wings were condemned to slavery, although the reasons as to why were still too complicated. Another confusing factor was that Katherine had noticed some winged slaves in the marketplace, or a small fraction of peasant Creatures residing in the less impressive districts of Harla'keth, which made her thoughts of determining importance very uncertain. If those without wings were all slaves, then why were there others with wings who were slaves? She wanted to ask one of the slaves, but she was not allowed to address any of the servants personally.

Katherine was very grateful to have been born with wings. She didn't want to imagine what it would be like to be without them.


Everything was horribly, horribly dark. At first, Katherine thought that her room was covered in nothing but horrible, lusterless-black bugs, moving and squirming in synchronization, but no matter how hard she looked, she couldn't see the wings and legs and other crawling things that her mind envisioned. Just then, she realized the darkness was alive, and it was eating everything in her room.

Katherine's room was literally swarming with shadows; ugly scars of pitch black marring every inch of her room. She was already afraid of the dark, but these shadows were far more deranged and hideous than what was in the real world. The shadows were not ephemeral; they were like tar festering in a prehistoric pit. Giant sweeping arcs of living darkness were crawling up the walls and seething at the edges of her ceiling, creating veined spider-web patterns; ugly patches that reminded her of oblivion bullet-holes pockmarked the parts of unmolested wallpaper; and beneath all that mass, Katherine could see the faint, disfigured silhouettes of small moths flitting from shadow to shadow. All the bright colors saturating the wallpaper was oozing out of the paper and running like multicolored blood down to the floor. Wherever Katherine stepped, her carpet began to foam violently with the vestiges of her wallpaper's dye.

She was walking, inexorably drawn toward the door to her room, like a moth to a flame. She was in front of it, and suddenly the darkness coating her door squirmed and retreated to the side, revealing a long, dark hallway inexplicably illuminated at the very end.

Sweet... Sweet, precious little Katherine...

Something was approaching her, a giant figure, striding in great, loping steps. Katherine stood, petrified, watching the silhouette advance. As the creature neared, she realized its body was bulky, massive and disproportionate; only vaguely feminine and indistinguishable from anything other than an abomination. Its – or her - feet were heavy and clawed.

Why did you run away from me the last time I saw you?

It was closer now. Katherine could see everything about the creature as the darkness retreated from its body, creating a black-white monochrome contrast against its visage: the visage of a moth, a wicked wax mask plastered over something that was once beautiful. The membrane of its wings was completely white, unsettlingly blank and devoid of the kaleidoscopic colors Lacrimosa was renowned for. Katherine's eyes quested for any evidence of the Lacrimosa's wings' former beauty, and they found none. Not a single trace of the Lacrimosa's legendary pigmentation remained in her wings.

At that moment, Katherine wanted to do nothing more than run away and hide under her bed, assuming that her personal sanctuary hadn't been twisted like everything else in her room. But whenever she tried to tug at her body's limbs and gather the energy necessary for her legs to cooperate, she was met with unresponsive numbness. She was like a puppet with severed strings. The moth-thing leaned in, gesturing with a serrated claw-finger. Katherine felt like her heart was going to explode like a firecracker in her chest.

I only wanted to have you play with my children.

Katherine's empty body noticed something out of the corner of her vision and glanced there, moving without its inhabitant's consent. The shadows on the wall were squirming even more furiously, like something was fighting underneath them. The shadows seemed to be punctured from the inside-out, and then Katherine saw a deluge of black, oily shapes tumble to the floor. Katherine, in spite of her detached state, couldn't help but feel like she wanted to vomit: they were maggots.

Each one popped and exploded in succession, creating a cacophony of firecracker-sounds. The little ringlets of dappled darkness splattered around the ruined cocoon-shells were starting to link together and assemble, like self-shaping origami. Many of those little fragmented figures were levitating, gradually rising and morphing until great clusters of them were darting about the room. Wailing, whispering noises resonated shrilly from the cloud, quickly escalating in volume as they spun, in perfect synchronization, into the air. An awestruck Katherine watched in dull comprehension, fear not quite registering until the moment the formation pervaded and started to sweep over her head. Then and only then, as her doom was inarguably apparent, did something close to a realistic reaction leave her lips, as though Katherine's body had finally succumbed to the tugging and thrashing of its subconscious –

- there she saw them, as they approached: moths, so many of them, made out of oily slime -

- and she screamed as the moth-mass overwhelmed her, crushing her beneath a deluge of fluttering, squealing insects.

Somehow she remained on her feet in spite of the tremendous pressure. Somehow she was able to summon enough strength to swing her arms and flail, attempting to break apart the murder of moths. She couldn't see anything beyond the huge screeching swarm of moths, couldn't hear anything beyond the infernal monotonous buzzing of their wings, and finally, when she lost her energy and fell to her knees, she opened her mouth wide in a scream that was swallowed up by the swarming moths. It was like being trapped in a claustrophobic, tightly-packed prison without any light, without any movement, and without any air.

Even when Katherine couldn't hear her own screaming, she could still hear the Lacrimosa's voice. It sounded distinctly satisfied.

See, Katherine?

They are beautiful.

The illusion vanished. Katherine's shadow-polluted room, the multitude of death moths, and the Lacrimosa itself simply disappeared without warning as she opened her eyes.


When Katherine woke up, nighttime was gone. The sun had come, chasing away all the darkness and the shadows, yet Katherine, who was still huddled under her sheets, seemed unconvinced by her evident safety. She denied the idea that sanctuary could come so easily and abruptly, and continued to think this until the first shaft of sunlight glanced out of her bay window, spilling through the diaphanous curtains and settling among the bright colors of her room. Aside from herself, the occupants of Katherine's brightly-colored room were a diverse population of stuffed animals. Most of them were congregated around her bed or still settled in their individual outposts. A few of the ones once used to wreath her bed were lying on the floor, having been knocked over from her thrashing episode.

Katherine twitched. She expected to feel her body remain stiff and unyielding, but instead she was able to throw the sheets off of her body and nudge away a few stuffed animals. A bright yellow giraffe dappled with large orange spots and fringed along its neck with a mane of yarn slumped to the floor. It's bright outside, she thought. The lingering vestiges of the sunrise were coloring the sky visible over Harla'keth. Lacrimosa won't be able to get me.

I don't want to stay in my room anymore.

She still felt sick and exhausted from her unproductive night, yet she felt so uncomfortable in what should have been the safest room in the house that she just didn't want to stay there. Even as a protective gesture, Katherine dragged the bright red security blanket she slept with out of the bed, draping it around her shoulders like a cape. Her bare feet grazed the frothy fur of her carpet as she ambled to the door.

Just as her hand settled on the doorknob, she heard a faint whirring noise that made her pulse accelerate. She froze in place; her eyes shifted to the bay window again.

Hovering outside was a tiny brown moth, curiously assessing the dormant lantern dangling from the corner of the rooftop. The spell used to ignite the lantern only lasted for the duration of the night, and had faded only a few moments before Katherine had awoke. Katherine could still see the concentrated particles of magical light flickering and dying behind the glass. The moth, drawn inquisitively to that half-dead glow, fluttered and bounced mindlessly against the glass.

Katherine saw the pale, stenciled shape of a skull emblazoned on the moth's back.

She was out the door so quickly that she didn't even bother closing it behind her. She left behind everything; the moth, her perpetual antagonist, and her room, the chamber of her nightmares.

---

Fun Author's Notes:
-The moths lil' Katherine saw were death's-head hawkmoths. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death%27s-head_Hawkmoth) They are real moths.
-Yes, this is the same Lacrimosa from that short story I wrote. You finally learned more about her.
-Katherine is around six years old in this chapter.
-No, Tapewolf. There are no Jyraneth plushies in Harla'keth.

Nice.  Presumably her mother will be able to see in her mind that she had a nightmare?

Great work, Keaton! It's nice to see you back. :3 The story is very well written and is really interesting. To tell the truth, though, my favourite part was a description of little Katherine fortofying her room with plushies. In fact, I want to draw it now. c:

I'd have to wonder what kind of older brother tells his kid sister a story so grotesque that it gives her nightmares.

Good read, though :U

Quote from: Tapewolf on February 07, 2009, 10:53:29 AM
Nice.  Presumably her mother will be able to see in her mind that she had a nightmare?

I would think so, but I'm starting to think that the Imenwati household has a "no reading your brother/sister/mother/father's mind(s), it's rude" policy. XD Although Katherine's mom would certainly not be above scanning her children's minds to see if they've done something wrong and their guilt is apparent.

Quote from: Ren Gaulen on February 07, 2009, 11:05:39 AM
Great work, Keaton! It's nice to see you back. :3 The story is very well written and is really interesting. To tell the truth, though, my favourite part was a description of little Katherine fortofying her room with plushies. In fact, I want to draw it now. c:

Thank you very much! :3 And dude, that would be AWESOME. :U It was my favorite thing to write in this chapter, so seeing your interpretation would be fantastic.

Quote from: Tipod on February 07, 2009, 01:14:35 PM
I'd have to wonder what kind of older brother tells his kid sister a story so grotesque that it gives her nightmares.

Good read, though :U

Any older brother.

Because boys are icky.

...No, I'm kidding. In all fairness, Noah probably didn't mean to give his sister nightmares. :U He probably overestimated her capacity for fear.

Is this going on llearch.net?

Quote from: Tapewolf on February 07, 2009, 10:53:29 AM
Nice.  Presumably her mother will be able to see in her mind that she had a nightmare?

That presumes she's thinking about it at the time her mother scans her.

I dunno about you, but I'd be doing my best not to think about it, at that age.

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on February 07, 2009, 08:17:35 PM
That presumes she's thinking about it at the time her mother scans her.
I dunno about you, but I'd be doing my best not to think about it, at that age.

I'm thinking more she runs into the living room in a panic and her mother does a quick scan to find out why.

As I said in Chat Keats awesome stuff :3 Me likey a good Keaton story!

Great story! I continue to feel sorry for Keaton. You're very good at depicting her emotions.

I liked the part about the plushies too. The description of the shadows at the beginning of the nightmare seemed a bit too long to me, but everything else was great.

I'm enjoying the story.  Keep it up! :mowcookie


I'm hesitant to cricitize, because it makes for pretty prose, but I find your use of anachronistic metaphors rather jarring. For example:

QuoteThere were no stars. They had all disappeared, popped and fizzled like light bulbs.

QuoteGiant sweeping arcs of living darkness were crawling up the walls and seething at the edges of her ceiling, creating veined spider-web patterns; ugly patches that reminded her of oblivion bullet-holes pockmarked the parts of unmolested wallpaper;

The second one is even more noticeable because it's explicit. It implies that the six-year-old Keaton has had sufficient exposure to firearms (the image it invokes for me is of walls riddled by automatic weapons fire) to associate them with her nightmares. That would be a very powerful piece of character development for a child growing up in a war torn modern state or crime ridden inner city. Unfortunately, since I'm expecting a tale of a young noble set five centuries before DMFA (a world with essentially no gunpowder technology even in the present day), it merely breaks the immersion.

Thanks to everyone for the comments! :) The chapter received a lot of recognition. I'm really happy to see that.

I'm too lazy to respond to everyone but ilu guise anyway <3

Quote from: Gabi on February 08, 2009, 04:41:20 PM
Great story! I continue to feel sorry for Keaton. You're very good at depicting her emotions.

I liked the part about the plushies too. The description of the shadows at the beginning of the nightmare seemed a bit too long to me, but everything else was great.

Thanks, Gabi :> Actually, as far as the nightmare description goes, I had a feeling someone would point it out. It used to be MUCH larger, but then I trimmed it down. Editing's weird.

Quote from: Tezkat on February 08, 2009, 06:34:35 PM
I'm hesitant to cricitize, because it makes for pretty prose, but I find your use of anachronistic metaphors rather jarring. For example:

[here there be examples]

The second one is even more noticeable because it's explicit. It implies that the six-year-old Keaton has had sufficient exposure to firearms (the image it invokes for me is of walls riddled by automatic weapons fire) to associate them with her nightmares. That would be a very powerful piece of character development for a child growing up in a war torn modern state or crime ridden inner city. Unfortunately, since I'm expecting a tale of a young noble set five centuries before DMFA (a world with essentially no gunpowder technology even in the present day), it merely breaks the immersion.

Dammit, I never would have noticed the bullet-holes thing. XD Weirdly, that was the part that one of my friends liked the most. XD Thank you for pointing that out; I'll probably alter that description after the second beta-ing process.

I just need to come up with something that sounds as good. :B Either way, thank you for the critiquing, good sir >:3 I hope you enjoy the story from hereon out.