[Writings] Keaton's Writing (NSFW): Chapter Two of Keaton's Backstory, 02/07/09

[Sunblink]

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.

[Tapewolf]

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.

[Sunblink]

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.

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.

[Sunblink]

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!

"Coney Island... they called Coney Island the playground of the world. There was no place like it. In the whole world. Like Coney Island when I was a youngster. No place in the world like it. It was so fabulous. Now it shrunk down to almost nothing. You see... I still remember... in my mind how things used to be. And, you know, I feel very bad. But people from all over the world came here. They called it the playground of the world. But anyways, I, even when I was very small, I got lost in Coney Island, but they found me on the beach. We used to sleep on the beach here... sleep overnight.  But they don't do it anymore. Things changed.

They don't sleep anymore on the beach."
-"Sleep: Murray Ostril (They Don't Sleep Anymore on the Beach)," by Godspeed You! Black Emperor

Prologue: They Moved in the Darkness

"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.
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.

[Ren Gaulen]

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!

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

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.

[Tapewolf]

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.

[Sunblink]

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!

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

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.

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

[Paladin Sheppard]

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

[Tapewolf]

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.

[Sunblink]

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

Thank you so much, Pal!

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.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

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."

[Tapewolf]

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).

DANCED WE AWAY,
AND FED THE SAD
STRINGSIE MAN-FOOL
TO THEIR DEVOURINGS
FOR OUR THANKS.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

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.

[Mao]

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

[Sunblink]

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.

[Tapewolf]

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.

[Sunblink]

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. I remembered it only after I checked the 'Who's Online' page.

[SpottedKitty]

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

[Paladin Sheppard]

Very Daryil that was great Keats 

[Sunblink]

Thanks to llearch for unlocking this topic! 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 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. 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.

[Tapewolf]

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

[Ren Gaulen]

Great work, Keaton! It's nice to see you back. 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.

[Tipod]

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

[Sunblink]

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.

Great work, Keaton! It's nice to see you back. 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.

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

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

Any older brother.

Because boys are icky.

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

[Tapewolf]

Is this going on llearch.net?

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

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.

[Tapewolf]

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.

[Paladin Sheppard]

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

[Gabi]

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.