|
|
April 19, 2003
|
|
]
World's End Bar..
Joachim is painted in winter shades the
lines of flesh and bone, the man's complexion is drained of life's
warm tints. Shoulder-length silvery hair frames still youthful
features, draping unbound. He is nonetheless lively enough, a ghost
of a smile lingering on the edges of his pale, expressive face and
reflected by the animated flicker in eyes the hue of light shadows. A
casual awareness marks every movement, the air of one accustomed to
sizing up the mood of a gathering at a glance. Slender, quick fingers
linger too long on every object that passes into their grasp as if
unconsciously testing each for some feel of weight and balance,
punctuated by the occasional toss and smooth catch of hands long
accustomed to such a thing. Riding leathers cling to the man's slight
frame in undyed shades of brown. Also of untreated cloth, a
wide-sleeved shirt of simple cut spills unheeded from the arms and
open throat of a sturdy, laced jerkin. Pants tuck into well-traveled
boots that extend to just under the knee.
Nash is six foot in his boots, thin and
long of face and body, this man looks a living scarecrow. All sharp
angles and little in his manner to soften them. His dark, purple hair
is shoulder-length, messy, growing out every which way from his scalp
and he wears an equally purple goatee. His face has an unpleasantly
sharp and ungiving look to it. His skin is pure white with a faintly
silverish undertone. Pale grey eyes are devoid of their usual silver
shards. His teeth look like they've been chromed and instead of
fingernails, his long, thin hands bear retractable black claws. He
wears a plain, white shirt, black riding pants and boots and a black
frock coat. A six-gun in a shoulder-holster can been seen occasionaly
within his jacket. A sabre in a black sheath hangs at his side.
Nergal is gaunt and hollow eyed, this six
foot tall skeletal figure is clad in black. A thick shirt covers his
upper body and a skirt falls to below his knees, his feet covered in
beaded boots. Upon one arm he wears a sheild of the deepest black and
sheathed on a girdle that is strapped about his thin waist is a long
blade. His face is colored a mottled black. Deep set into his skull
are two cold dark eyes, and worn on the top of his head is a dark
cononical hat, flat upon the top. When he speaks, his voice sounds
like bone grating on bone and his mouth, which is ringed by the thick
dark hair of a full beard seems locked in a hideous grin.
Nash feels a tingling sensation in the
back of your head. Someone attempts to make contact with
him.
To the image of Nergal, Nash
looks up from a book and seems slightly surprised. "Nergal - good
turnings?"
The image of Nergal stands in the hills
outside Sacramento. He speaks, "It is time for me to be forthcoming.
Will you join me?"
To the image of Nergal, Nash squints,
"Forthcoming? In Sacramento?" he has already put the book aside and
held out his hand as he questions you, though.
The image of Nergal offers to pull him
through...
The Hills, Sacramento...
The hills outside Sacramento
City are barren indeed. Dusty from years of prospecting the empty
mine shafts and caverns stand in mute testament to man's greed. A few
clumps of dying trees here and patches of grass there are the only
flora to be seen though desert rats and oversized spiders are
abundant. Contents: Nergal Obvious exits: Pit of Filth Into Town
After crossing the shadow fences for miles, you side-step back into
reality.
Nergal releases your hand and slips away
the Trump in his other. He then says, "Wotan has cast his runes and
says the time for the completion of what Anubis has begun
approaches."
Nash frowns a little and sighs. "This is
going to be tough, isn't it?"
Nergal nods once, "All things worth doing
are."
Nash pulls a face, "Just tell me how to
help you."
Nash is standing next to Nergal, looking
less than happy.
Nergal stands with Nash in the desert.
Though his clothing is obviously
Assyrian, his appearance beneath it is as
Hank was described.
A cracking sound, the bullet explosion of
carelessly trod-upon dead wood echoes through the hilly area,
followed soon effort by a grunt of effort as a pale-skinned figure
pulls itself over the crest of a nearby hill. Dust swirls around the
newcomer and he coughs, brushing dirt and sand from his breeches with
an annoyed look.
Nash looks towards the newcomer and says
quietly to his companion, "Planned extra? Tell me what's going to
happen. Tell me so that I don't mess things up."
Nergal looks to the newcomer as well,
speaking quietly to Nash
Nergal whispers "Wotan spake that one who
seeks Death shall come. And this one, in his ignorance, shall do
Death's work."
Looking up from his vain effort, the
figure straightens. Wintery blue eyes regard the companions warily
for a moment before the man seems to shrug inwardly, beginning the
process of picking his way down the treacherous slope towards them.
Nash frowns a little more, He mutters to
Nergal, "Will Hank be alright? I understand some of you won't and
that you will not stop. But will Hank be okay?"
Nergal nods once, He mutters to Nash, "He
is a survivor. Fear not for him."
Joachim reaches the bottom of the hill
and pauses within easy hailing range, making some show of looking
around the surrounding area. "I don't suppose either of you gentlemen
have seen a mule wandering about," he calls out in a clear, educated
voice with just the hint of a buried drawl.
Nash gives Nergal's shoulder a squeeze
before letting his hand drop again, turning the bulk of his attention
onto the stranger. He mutters to Nergal, "I wish... for..." he makes
no answer to the stranger.
Nergal senses "Nash gives Nergal's
shoulder a squeeze before letting his hand drop again, turning the
bulk of his attention onto the stranger. "I wish I could fear for
none of you." he makes no answer to the stranger."
Nergal gives Nash a single nod before
turning to look at Joachim. He commands, "Bother us not. Things
beyond your ken are to transpire." He then points back the way the
man came as if directing him off.
Joachim's eyes narrow a little bit and he
takes a few more slightly swaggered steps towards the pair. A long
hand reaches to pat at something at his waist, a nervous gesture
perhaps. "Now I don't see any cause for being rude. I asked you a
simple question."
Nash flicks one side of his coat slightly
aside to afford a better view of the pistol tucked in a holster under
his left arm. His voice drops into something of a heavily accented
local drawl as he says, "We ain't seen no mule, stranger."
Nergal merely steps back, crossing his
arms, looking around as if expecting another's approach.
At Nash's reply Joachim stops, his hands
raising palm-out. At the sudden movement something falls from his
pocket where he was apparently checking it moments ago, hitting the
ground with a small plume of dust. "Whoa there stranger," he says a
little nervously, the carefully concealed drawl in his voice slipping
more than a little. "I ain't armed, and I don't want no...I don't
want any trouble." Pale eyes flicker down to the dropped object at
his feet, a stone-shaped thing that reflects the desert sun with an
unearthly, emerald glow.
Nash narrows his eyes, the fingers on his
right hand in that peculiar set that speaks of readiness despite the
stranger's words. After a quick glance at the object he flicks his
squint back to the man's face, asking, "What the heck is
that?"
Nergal glances down to the object now as
well, peering at it. He then looks at the man now, studying
him.
Joachim looks puzzled a moment before
answers. "Oh...I found it," comes a rushed, excited reply. He risks a
look back in the direction he came, gesturing to emphasize his point.
"In the old shafts. Hundreds of them, all shining like green sta..."
There is an audible click of teeth as he bites off his own words. "I
found it," he repeats lamely. In the dust at his feet the stone
shimmers and pulses, as if feeding on the sunlight.
Nash says only, "I see." flitting a
glance at Nergal now.
Nergal glances back, stepping forward
towards the gem. He starts to crouch to examine it. The stone has an
almost hypnotic quality, the patterns of light giving it an almost
'living' appearance.
Joachim takes a half-step back at the
nearness of the gaunt figure, obviously torn between a desire to
reclaim the dropped treasure and his wariness of Nergal's approach.
Gray blue eyes flicker anxiously between the two. "I'll tell ya what.
I need to find my mule. Maybe you kin help me...I'll give ya this
one." His voice wavers uncertainly.
Nash frowns at Nergal disapprovingly, his
right hand lifting slightly towards his pistol as he says, "I'd step
back a bit more if I was you, mister. I want to see plenty of
daylight between you and my friend while he looks that over. Then
we'll see about your mule."
Nergal pauses for but a moment before he
reaches for the green glowing stone, meaning to pick it
up.
Joachim swallows and nods, completing his
step back and taking another. As the skeletal hand reaches for the
stone, however, the pale man's hands stop wavering, a subtle
difference, as his glance flicks between the men.
Nash looks tense as all get out, his own
fingers twitching lightly as he watches Joachim. Wound up and ready
to go.
Nergal grasps the stone in his hand,
picking it up to examine it closely. At contact, there is a horribly
blinding flash of sickly green light, pouring out from the object in
a rush of tangible force. Almost immediately The figure holding it in
enveloped in the glow, his frame arching unnaturally. A simple step,
deft and without hesitation, places Joachim so that the effects of
the stone occur between Nash and the pale man.
In the distraction of the moment, Joachim
raises logrus nastiness.
Nash staggers back a step from the force,
then draws his pistol, making every effort to reverse his direction
to get to Nergal's side, "Nergal!"
Nergal is frozen in place, face taut in a
silent scream barely visible beneath the green glow. Very soon
however the glow begins to fade, sucking back into gem at a quick
rate. Nergals body starts to slump forward as this
happens.
Before the after-effects of the
lightflare can fully fade, the limp form of Nergal twitches
marionette-like, leaving the ground to hurl suddenly towards the
approaching Nash with significant force and speed.
Nash's eyes widen and he makes some
effort to catch the flying Nergal. He's successful enough to get an
arm around the man, getting knocked off his feet himself at the
impact.
Nergal goes hurtling towards Nash, caught
in Nash's arms. On the way, the green gem goes flying from his grasp,
away from him and towards the stranger.
Joachim arcs a brow, his voice slipping
to a low hiss as he extends a hand outward. "Excellent," comes the
murmer of a sandstorm echo as the stone shifts direction midair to
land in the cradle of pale fingers. Something stirs the surface of
the ground around the man, dust beginning to swirlupwards in dramatic
wisps.
Nash's gun goes off as he hits the
ground, the bullet hitting nothing but dust. Swearing in a colourful
mixture of Thari, Latin and English as he tries to disentangle
himself enough from Nergal to fire with more purpose.
Nergal merely slumps limp as Nash allows
him, falling to one side.
Joachim stands, watching the two for a
moment with a glimmer in darkening eyes. The cloud of dirt and debris
whip up around him more violently now as, closing his fingers around
the gem and slipping it into the pocket at his waist, he turns and
steps into the heart of the growing sandstorm.
Nash's cursing devolves into an enraged
roar as he gets to one knee and fans the last five shots in his
pistol into the whirling sand.
The reports from the gun are drowned in
the advancing veil of sand, not even echoes escaping to justify the
violence of the act. The dusty cloud washes a gritty torrent over the
two men before fading back to the ground whence it came. Of the pale
man there is no sign, whatever track he may have left eradicated by
the unnatural storm. And somewhere, in the distance, a raven cries,
circling into the desert sky; a dull, green stone clutched in its
dust-stained talons...
Later, in the streets of Hell's
Kitchen...
Hell's Kitchen. Does day never break in
this city? The clouds that forever threaten rain or worse never
lighten past the darkest shade of night. The weather seems eternally
chilled, regardless of "season". Adding to the dark feel of this land
are the highrises that line the streets, uniformly black or grey.
Businesses, stores, banks, and more fill these buildings, and the
only light that reaches the street is from the combination of
guttering streetlamps, car headlights, and lights shining through the
windows.
The street itself is in poor repair,
making driving dangerous and damaging to the strongest of vehicles.
Most of the people who brave the streets do so on foot. In alleyways,
barrel-fires offer little heat and less illumination to those
unfortunates who surround them. Gunshots are often heard echoing
along the streets, but the natives seem not to notice.
The sun rises on the Eastern horizon,
burning away the horrors of the night and revealing the dreary,
lifeless husk that the city has become.
Mariko is small and slender, but musclar.
Her deep brown eyes are half-lidded and down cast, her pale lips
slightly open. She doesn't smile. A few stray strands of her straight
black hair fall across her face, but most of it falls down her back.
She wears a deep maroon velvet dress which fits her from neck to toe.
A bit of lace peeks out from her collar just under her chin. Black
buttons march down her front to her waist. Maroon silk gloves covered
in maroon lace are on her hands. A lace covered black boot
occasionally shows itself from under her skirt. A silver chain
encircles her waist. Hanging from the chain is an upside-down
unicorn. An upside-down serpent hangs from her throat. A long sword
scabbard hangs from the silver chain. She wields a large black
umbrella.
A girl, dark and lithe in her youthful
frame, flits silently along the street, skirting the somehow
beckoning shadows of the alleyways she passes. Nervously she glances
around the street, occasionally reaching with unconscious gesture to
clutch at something at her breast. Across the way, dimly-lit pale
angular features follow the girl's furtive movements; a figure
leaning idly against a flickering lamp post, the silhouettes of a
handful of compatriots outlined behind him in a blur. Embers glow
from the vicinity of his hand, emitting a spectral trail of smoke
that wreathes upwards out of the darkness. The girl looks oddly
familiar....
Mariko forms in the shape of a cross,
darkness, shadow pealing away to reveal a shabby form, a meat puppet.
It twists, cracking various joints in a skeletal dance. It's head
seems more pulled up than lifted on its own, and it appears to look
around, though not carefully.
The pale man straightens slightly,
flicking the lit cigarette to the ground. Steel-gray eyes shift onto
the new arrival, widening before he steps back purposefully into the
shadows to meld more closely with his companions. The girl, having
passed by now, seems not to notice either man or fleshy apperation,
starting only at a racket emerging from the mouth of the alley beside
her. Her seeming familiarity is uncanny, so obvious yet...
Under the cover of darkness, the group of
shadowy figures led by the pale man range towards her.
Mariko stretches out one hand towards
Earth, the other palm is raised to heaven. Slowly, slowly, she turns
upon her heals. A slow piroette, her head lolled to one side, face
slightly turned towards heaven. The world seems not to exist for her.
If it does, she gives no outward sign of it. A slight scraping of
heel to asphalt can be heard.
The girl, stepping backwards off the curb
and into the street away from the sudden noise emanating from the
alley, falls into the grasp of one of the darkkly enshrouded figures.
His hand closes over her mouth rapidly, closing off the scream
defined clearly by her shock-widened eyes. The pale man spares
another glance from where his companions encircle the rapidly
ensnared youth to the slowly spinning figure and, as if satisfied
that whatever the thing may be, its lack of concern for the goings on
should reflect his own reaction, offers it a wickedly tinted
half-grin before returning his attention to the struggles of
the...prey.
Something about the girl...her face...a
reflection carved from the clay of youth. A warped reflection of
goddess' visage...
Mariko ceases her dervish whirling,
facing away from the abduction for a moment. It seems she is hoisted
up for a moment by her shoulders, and her arms and legs flop back
into position, and the world reaches up to meet her feet. The world
spins around her and she is facing the gang of toughs and their prey.
Her head wobbles slightly, and eyes roll loosely in their sockets,
but in time come to fix on your position.
Apparently unconcerned by the
otherworldly presence, the group of men drag the struggling girl
towards the darkness of the alley. Writhing wildly, her hands claw at
the fingers of her captor as somehow she manages to latch small teeth
into his skin. With a grunt of painful surprise he drops her,
clutching his hand. Scrambling on her knees the girl casts
fear-filled eyes around desperately even as the others close about
her. The pale man steps behind the would-be escapee and slips long
fingers into her disheveled hair, yanking back cruelly, cutting off
the cry emanating from her gasping throat before it sounds. Terrified
eyes fixed on you as her willowly body is forced into an arch, the
young woman mouths a plea for help.
There is no question now, the face you
see twisted in pain and fear is your own, or a vision of your
youth....
Mariko gathers herself up, no longer
dangling from invisible threads from heaven. She is solid, part of
the Earth, and it seems to tremble (or is that only a trick) when she
taps her foot, soft leather slapping at asphalt. "You have my
attention."
Perhaps it is the quiet declaration
accentuated by the shaking ground that attracts more attention than a
shout...perhaps it is the silent watch of the pale man despite his
compatriots particulars passions...perhaps it is the last last
spastic effort of the tiring girl in the hand of her
tormentors...perhaps it is all of these things or none of them that
cause the silence following the spoken words. The ruffians drop their
struggling catch. She lands heavily, surprised at the release, her
face striking the earth hard before she flips herself over to
scramble half-falling away from the alley, exhausted. Blood trickles
from her nose and a cut over one eye. A white face turns upwards from
the shadows, steely eyes glinting hard over a twisted sneer. "She's
nothing," he hisses. "What concern is it of yours?"
Mariko tsks quietly, though it sounds as
if she stands next to you. "I generally find that when someone has
taken the trouble to copy my face, they want my attention." She
glances up, smiles in the general direction of what, from here, might
be a gargoyle pearched on a building. "Well, you have it. . . . So
what do you want with it?"
The girl only turns once again towards
you, a glimmer of hope in her frightened eyes. "Help me, please" she
whimpers...weakly. The pale man frowns, stepping forward to press a
heel sharply into the back of the girl's calf. "I don't know what
you're talking about," he says in a low voice in the aftermath of her
cry of pain. "She's meat, nothing more." His voice is a holds the
edge of a challenge, though wary. Around him his companions form a
slow crescent, their brutality tempered by a tangible
fear.
Mariko considers the whimpering girl with
obvious disdain on her face. "Of course she's meat. Everyone in this
whole stinking rotting world is meat. But the question remains, why
does this meat wear my face? . . . Is it mere coincidence that she
falls prey here, in my presence? Or does someone want to send me a
message. I don't believe in coincidences."
The pale man considers a moment, not
taking his heel from its painful perch on the bruised swell of the
girl's calf. She whimpers, tears of agony streaming down her
now-dirty and blood marked face. The sorrowed fountains that are her
eyes widen at you, imploring and surprised with a recognition not
unlike your own no doubt. "Please," she whispers a moment before the
figure towering over her cuts off anything intelligible with another
sharp twist of his leg. He speaks then with a low confidence designed
to encourage his slowly breaking compatriots' courage than to
intimidate. "What d'you expect us to do then. Abandon something you
care nothing about because you don't believe in coincidence?" He
pauses, apparently coming to some sort of epiphany, the similarity of
appearance between girl and goddess not lost to him. "Tell you what.
I'll sell her to you. Then you can do anything with your little
changeling you'd like."
The dim city grows dimmer, fires in their
cans shrink, and the shadow on the goddess' face grows long.
Apparitions and shades wisp at the edge of perception, less real than
imagined, an implied threat of things that do not exist. "If I wanted
a doppelganger I would make one. This is *my* world and I do not like
being played with."
The pale man looks slightly less sure of
himself, stepping off the girl's leg; which is of course no help to
the moral of his followers. He recovers with admirably quick wit
however. "I'm only playing by the rules of your world, you made it so
you should know. It's a rough place out here. She shouldn't have been
walking unescorted. You obviously don't want her and we do so go
create a doppelganger elsewhere if you'd like and leave us to ours."
The youth in question looks up, a glint of light at her throat
falling free from the torn neckline of there clothing. It is a
pendant, apparently unremarkable, except...there is something there.
A simple green stone that dully pulses, seemingly with a life of its
own. The pattern of light is hypnotic
somehow...mesmerizing...
Mariko's gaze is taken by the stone. Her
mouth drops open just slightly even as her eyes open wide and her
nostrils flair. The shadows tremor and threaten, but they come to
nothing as the green light flashes against the goddess'
eyes.
The effect is not lost on the man. With
only a moment's hesitation he looks to what is the goddess sees and,
recognizing the source reaches for the pendant. The girl, finding a
new reserve of strength fights him off for a moment, actually sinking
teeth into his hand at one point. Her efforts yield little more than
a grunt of pain savage backhand strike that slaps her head hard
against the road. She moans to herself, holding her bloodied mouth
with one hand and clutching the black of her head with another as the
albino straighten, holding out the throbbing stone somewhat gingerly.
"This what you want? Take it." He starts to stoop, to set it on the
road, only pausing to wrench the girl behind him.
Mariko takes a hesitant step, drawn but
fighting. Slowly her hand reaches out for the stone . . .
Joachim steps away from stone and
goddess, dragging the mostly quiescent girl with him where she is
taken up by his followers.
Long, thin fingers clasp tight around the
stone. "*NO!!!!!!*" The goddess' hand clamps so tight that her nails
puncture her skin in her palm, yet no blood flows. The jewel glows
bright between her fingers, then dims, it flickers, fading and
glowing. The goddess doesn't move.
In the haze that is sensation the group
of figures seems to blur and melt, till only the albino remains. He
grins a deathly grin, features appearing more skull-like than not,
holding out a spidery hand for the inevitable as his eyes narrow in
brief concentration. The sly rogue's voice freezes to the
bone-chilling hiss of winter's night winds. "There is always a price,
even for the powerful," it intones.
Mariko's eyes squeeze shut so tight it
pains one to see it. A living being might have tears, but corpses
shed no tears. . . . and yet she does, as the gem glows and she
falls, a rag doll to the street.
Joachim inclines his head to the figure
lying now before him. "Good night...goddess," he whispers with an odd
note of respect in his voice. "Dream decadent dreams." The stone,
fading quickly from the brilliant flash of moments ago, works its way
from the collapsed figures grip to arc through intervening space into
the albino's cradled fingers. The many behind him, now fading from
existence like so watercolors in a rainstorm, flow primary colors
into the gutters of the street and are quickly gone. Securing the
stone in a breast pocket, the figure turns and with long strides
passes into the shadows...