I find it kinda funny I find it kinda sad, the dreams in which I am dying

Just Wrote this:

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 01:33:29 GMT

Ashes fell down from the sky like snowflakes, even though it was mid-summer, the day a scorching hot one. The smoke from the dead fire covered the sky giving the whole area a gray outcast. All there was left was skeletons of the house, only the brick church stood proudly left, it's roof the only victim of the fire. It should have been a perfectly lovely day, but instead unfortunate survivors the few half a dozen or so walked around numb, shoulders sagged, their eyes registering the mayhem in silence. Except for the little girl in her cute white dress, now all dirtied and bloody as she ran around crying for her parents, squealing at the top of her lungs. None of the older survivors registered her, nor did her parents, lying at the bottom pile close to the brick church wall the firing squad had used for executing the straggling survivors. Even if they had lived, they could not have answered anyhow, their eyes and tongues cut out with an expert touch of a butcher.

A butcher who now sat languid under the shade of a parasol as his troop rested up against their military truck.

She looked away from the scope swallowing the bitter saliva in her mouth. The sergeant sat beside her, it almost looked like his swirling hard edged red tattoos glowed in the shadows of the bush they were hiding in.
“That aint fucking war, that's slaughter.”

“It happens.” He cut himself another slice of the apple he had brought offer her the slice. She shook her head, barely hiding her disgusted look before willing herself to look back through the scope, the only consolation was the caress of her grip and the coolness of her sniper rifle. Maybe, just maybe she would be allowed to shoot. “They don't even care about the rest, like they just gave up shooting.”
“That's because they aint going nowhere. When they're bored later they can just reload and use'em for target practice.”

“Fucking hells, Sarge.” She was at the edge, a careful precipice of crying and disobeying direct orders, they weren't here to shoot anyone, this was a simple damned recon mission. She loved her sergeant, but the way he sometimes was so cold, so indifferent to everything as he sat there eating the green apple, looking with his deep indigo eyes at the scene but seemingly absolutely nothing. But he didn't see what she saw, hell he didn't even look through binoculars.

“I have a daughter around her age.”

“Huh. Three 'Pineapple' antitank disposable missiles in the truck, an extra 50cal and the Kerin 5.56mm Assault rifle as standard issue. Bastards are well armed.”

She turned the rifle around to confirm what the sergeant had seen in the back of the truck, true enough the butchers were armed to the teeth, not the revolutionary tribes men she had expected to meet out here. Sheera swore again, this time silently before returning her attention to the visible back of the leading officer's head. He was pointing now in the general direction of the little girl, His adjunct, broad shouldered man in a sharp vintage uniform stepped forward moving slowly without hesitation as he drew his side arm.

“No.” She whispered.

Yes. He shot only once, the crack of the pistol echoing out towards the two camouflaged soldiers as the little girl's head exploded and crumbed next to the pile where her parents had been buried her white dress now crimson. Sheera could feel herself shake, a single tear escaping, her trigger finger ever so slightly touching the side of trigger, the safety wasn't even on.

“Let's go, we've seen enough.” His raw voice was surprisingly soft in it's tone. A heavy hand touching her shoulder.

“Sarge...” Sheera managed to look away staring deeply into her Sergeant's strange Sin-Aede eyes.

“Yeah?”

“War... What is it good for?”

Sergeant Calhoun did not hesitate to reply, “Absolutely nothing.”

BAM!

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 19:12:24 GMT

They found themselves a couple of stools by the bar and Richileu quickly managed to order two Ayre whiskey on the rocks. Duncan tapped the table with his fingers a couple of times to the muttered beat of the live band in the background. He looked over his shoulder checking the surroundings once more and winced as the multitudes of hair leather clad bikers that littered the place. One of the biggest bikers turned, a stream of smoke coming from his cigar. His hair was tied into a pony tail though the top of his head was balding. He carried a leather vest with pride, a pristine insignia of a flaming skull on it, with devil horns. What a lovely crowd.

Duncan looked away again,

“Here we go, Mr. O'Toole.” Richileu slid the drink in front of him in a suspicious looking glass.

“Duncan” he corrected him, and wiped his red tie with his hand. Next time, Duncan would chose their drinking establishment, he decided. He wasn't really sure what the finely dressed Richileu considered worthwhile in this particular speakeasy.
“So will you listen to what I got to say now?”

Duncan jerked his head and raised his shoulders for a second. “Well you bought me a drink. I'll give ya until I finish it.” Duncan smiled broadly.

“Right, Well as I was saying we are a-”

“Done.” Duncan smacked the empty glass down, making the lone ice clink as it connected with the rim. He exhaled with pleasure.

“That's hardly fair.”

“You know what's not fair either? My glass, it's empty!” Duncan pushed it a little away to make his point.

Richileu sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine.” He swung his finger in the air motioning for the bartender to refill Duncan's glass.

“Look.” Duncan drew in his breath, he admitted he had a problem saying no to free drinks and that was fine by him. “What you're selling I aint buying, braw.”

“I've not yet said what I am selling here.” Richileu held up his hands defensively, a thin blond brow slightly raised, and a slim smile curled his lips upward.

“I think I know what you're selling,” Duncan jiggled with the fresh glass of Whiskey and took a tentative sip this time. “You're from the government, nice suit, matching tie. Gun hidden beneath your jacket.”

“Nothing surprising about that.” Richileu shrugged.

“No.” Duncan agreed and kept on going. “Well you said you weren't here to arrest.” though it certain almost looked like it, with that huge Eli guy sneaking up behind him, along with the multitude and other 'suits' rummaging through Egan's bookstore. It really sucked you couldn't sucker punch a government official. Duncan couldn't remember much of that night, but he did remember waking up in detention. “you're here to offer me a job, and I don't care what kind of dental plan you got. I've had enough.”

“I am offering you more than that, Duncan. Say how old are you?”

Duncan perked his head to the side and with no words at all said to Richileu, 'are you kidding me?'

“Right, ok so, you're twenty-six, you've been in the marines for a third of your life, and you were good at it. But sometimes Duncan, life throws you a curve ball, and sometimes you are given opportunities to catch that ball. You don't have an education, you don't have family, you don't have any economic security Duncan. Where do you want to be in your life? What do you want to do with it? You really want to run around aimlessly shooting at people?”

“Only if they shoot back.” He muttered and looked down into his drink which didn't taste as good as it once had. He put it down and sighed. This was the same old song he'd heard a lot of times, from teachers, foster parents, more teachers, the cops that usually arrested when he got caught and so forth, the list was long.
“Imagine if you will, you were once on a boat.” Richileu and finished his own drink, “Until something bad happened and now you're out there in middle of the sea all alone, the boat leaving you behind.” Richileu removed a ice cube from the glass and put it in the middle of the counter. “That's you Duncan. Aimlessly swimming, and you don't have anyone or anything to save you.”

“Wow, you must be a joy to talk to at parties.” Duncan drank from his glass, and cleared his throat. “I am still not interested. I don't know what exactly you want from me in particular, I reckon this is not how you do all your interviews.”

Richileu chuckled, “No.” he admitted. “But maybe I should.” He ordered another drink with the wave of his fingers and looked back at Duncan. “Be honest here Duncan, what is it about working for the government that doesn't appeal to you? You've done it before.”

“Freedom.” Duncan said instantly. “Sure the Achillion Marines were a strict military. But it also made me feel free, and a part of something.” Caracka, Nolan, Neil... What the hell were those guys up to, he wondered.

“Freedom to do what exactly?”

“Not to do anything in particular.” Duncan shrugged, “It's not about that, braw. You know throughout my life a lot of people had a lot of different expectations in regards to me. My aunt whom I lived with for the first seven years expected me to do something really stupid and become a convict.” Score one for the old hag, Duncan had to admit that. But it had technically not been his fault. “Good or bad, with expectations comes responsibility and that is not what I want. Not thrust upon me in regards to something in the end don't want to do.”

“What about the responsibility of the marines?” Richileu had been so eerily quiet. His blue eyes sparkling in the dim light. Attentively listening as Duncan suddenly poured his damned heart out, to a damned suit.

“Different. Marines are brothers. But that's gone now too, and now I got no responsibility. I might be alone that sea of yours.” Duncan pointed at the melting ice cube. “But I don't have to drag anyone else around with me.”

Richileu nodded whether from agreeing or something else, Duncan couldn't see. He ran a hand through his golden hair and smiled. “Everyone, no matter who, has a responsibility.” He looked up at the bartender, “Can I have some toothpicks, please.”

the bartender lumbered away for a brief second looking none to pleased about being interrupted in standing around and doing nothing. He quickly came back and silently gave Richileu a handful of tooth picks which he set down on the table and picked up five toothpicks setting them aside. He picked up a single one now and with a serious stern face, reminding Duncan of his mathematics teacher Mr. Gonegal said, “This is you.”

“I am handsomer, but I can suspend my disbelief.”

Richileu picked up another tooth pick and held it in front of Duncan. “We can both admit that you have often gotten into trouble.”

“Which are not directly my fault.” Duncan nodded, holding up a finger.

“Right. Now this toothpick in my left hand is that trouble.” He broke the toothpick in his right hand and drew in his breath. “Now that's what would happen if you didn't do anything. If you lost.” he picked up a replacement toothpick as Duncan.
“Now that toothpick is prettier, looks like me.” Duncan fished out his packet of cigarettes and some matches, lighting one up.

“If you won...” Richileu broke the toothpick in his left hand now and set it on the table.

“self-defense.” Duncan inhaled the cigarette smoke and exhaled making a pretty little smoke circle with his mouth.

“I am not judging you.” Richileu said, he tapped the table with one finger “What if that toothpick here had friends, or family who wanted to come after you. What if they tried to break you?”

“Well I guess I would defend myself.”

“Right, you would. There arises the responsibility Duncan, what happens to you because of how you reacted can affect others. Innocents. It's your responsibility to see that they don't get hurt. Even if you're faced with one choice, and one choice only, that doesn't mean you can escape the responsibility of it.” Richileu twisted his torso and extended a finger in the direction of the biker Duncan had been looking at earlier. “you see that guy over there? His name is Orden Deveahl.”

“How do you know his name?” Duncan almost dropped his smoke from the edge of his mouth.

Richileu merely shrugged and continued, “He had a choice as well, but he choose to do what you want, escape everything. Live free on the road out of society.”

“And how exactly did that work out for him?”

Orden Deveahl had with a huge cigar in his grinning mouth sat down by a table to for a arm wrestling match with another scarred nasty looking biker. He looked like a modern when Duncan considered it. A big salt'n'pepper bushy beard, earring ornaments dangling from his ears, and one from his nose, tattoos on his neck, of various images. Griffons, skulls and dragons.

“He thought going of the grid would help.”

“And it didn't?”

“No.” Richileu sighed, “He started driving his motorcycle around Achillion, doing what he wanted, when he wanted. He crossed the whole damned continent. But ever so slowly, he collected a bigger and bigger following who were attracted to his freedom, his way of living. Even out there in the sea, like you.” He turned back to point at the almost melted ice cube. “He attracted others swimming alone, and soon responsibility found him from his actions. One man became many, and Orden was suddenly in charge of them all following his ideal.”

“So you're saying there's nothing as freedom?”
“What I am saying Duncan, is that, freedom does not absolve the idea of responsibility for anyone. Even if you're alone in that sea, you will make ripples in the water that affects others.”

Duncan emptied his second whiskey and exhaled, “Never knew government suits to be so philosophical.”

“I think it comes with age.”

The bastard didn't look that old really, early 40's if Duncan had to guess, no real wrinkles, but then Duncan had to admit there was something ancient in his uncannily blue eyes.

“I still don't see how this has anything to do with your job offer.” Duncan jammed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray making it sizzle quietly.

“Maybe it doesn't, but I am not just offering you a nine to five job here, Duncan. I am not here to take what you perceive as your freedom. I am here to offer you helping hands when that sea drags you under, and you feel like you're drowning. The responsibility you want to avoid in not taking this job and wandering around aimlessly, are already there.” He released himself from the stool, correcting the placement of his dark blue tie and the position if his jacket. From his inner pocket he took out a card, putting it on the table. “I've said what I want to say. If you change your mind, Duncan and need a helping hand, call me on that number.” He patted Duncan lightly on the back before throwing down a few dollar bills before collecting his moss-colored coat and matching hat, “I think I've given you enough to chew on.”

“Aye, Braw.” Duncan looked at the amount of money, “and enough for a couple more drinks.”

Richileu tipped his hat with a crooked smile, and turned around to walk away. “you're wrong though.” Duncan called out to him, turning around on the bar stool to face him.

“About what?” Richileu stopped, his eyes glowing strangle under the shade of the hat.

“I have friends, I have Egan and Maggie. I am not quite as alone as you make me.”

“Duncan, for what's coming,” he shook his head. “you're alone. Goodnight.” Richileu disappeared, the door creaking as he headed out into the night.

Duncan lit up another smoke, and took a deep wheeze from it. He noticed the ice cube on the table had already melted, and now the leftovers of the toothpicks was now 'drowning' in the small puddle.

For what was coming?

Why did everyone know a lot more than Duncan himself, it was really really annoying. He put Richileu's card down into his inner pocket before he ordered another whiskey. Choices, Duncan hated them, at least the Marines had been easy, 'go there, shoot that.'

Civilian life was multiple choice, and that complicated things.

He looked down into the fresh drink, and shrugged silently to himself, “I'll worry about that tomorrow.”

Priest description.

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 22:58:27 GMT

This is a description of my main character from no particular scene, but merely meant to set down how he looks and moves:

He sat in a corner, the chair leaning up against the wall, his small glowing blue eyes piercing smoke and the shadows always fixed on the unknowable places, the color flaring almost as if flames and when he blinked, some small piece of light in the room disappeared. He got up, wearing his dark green vest with a faded white shirt underneath. His black pants had a darkred-wine line on each side of the legs.
He was broad shouldered, with a lanky sinewy build but his movement was slow and deliberate like a bear. Spurs sang with each step he took, following the thumping of heavy boots. His narrow mouth was set in one straight line beneath a long straight nose, his scruffy beard and long hair was purely white, not by age, but white as the untouched snow on the peaks of the mountains. He took of his black broadbrimmed hat, letting a hand run through his hair, before turning his long sombre face that possessed the slight darkened skin tone of an elir.
A shuffle of chairs and Priest turned, drawing his huge revolver in a fluid motion, he did not hesitate as the revolver cracked and a man on the other side of the room was flung backwards in a spray of blood. A gun clattered to the ground next to the dead man.
“Let's go.” his voice was from the grave. He holstered turned his back on the silent patrons of the saloon and disappeared out into the desert.

Ares: A song

Tue, 25 Nov 2008 19:25:44 GMT

Slick grip
Fortyfive caliber ready to slip
Chrome plated Hyperbole
Fuckahs gonn' get
A bullet in da Head hole
Turn around, Turn around
Da clip, Da feed
Aint nothin' Faster
than a bullet speed
Come on Fuckahs
Bleed, bitch, bleed

Da way of Da gun
created our empire
and it's wit da 9mm
Us gonn' get our desire
The world it burns
It's red fire!

Da way of Da gun
created our empire
and it's wit da 9mm
Us gonn' get our desire
The world it burns
It's red fire!

Red-rum, red-rum
Aw Five-o
Don't ruin mah fun
Itchy trigger fingah
Hearin' da dyin' victim's scream
I aint evah seen the inside of a spleen
One Slug left
Restin' snugly in da chambah
Saved just for you
No-one to save ya
One more theft,
One more life to bereft

Da way of Da gun
created our empire
and it's wit da 9mm
Us gonn' get our desire
The world it burns
It's red fire!

Da way of Da gun
created our empire
and it's wit da 9mm
Us gonn' get our desire
The world it burns
It's red fire!
Setting sun, setting sun
Aint got no more
in da colt
Oh shit, time ta bolt
Aint no hero here
to stop da flood
River of blood, river of blood
Fell down to da knees
to pray
God aint able to stop da spray
Through the looking glass it sees
daat universal truth
Da religion dat is da NRA Booth

Da way of Da gun
created our empire
and it's wit da 9mm
Us gonn' get our desire
The world it burns
It's red fire!

Da way of Da gun
created our empire
and it's wit da 9mm
Us gonn' get our desire
The world it burns
It's red fire!

Ned-The Camouflage dog.

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 18:54:21 GMT

He looked over at the cave mouth with a worried sigh, for all the beauty of the place, he hoped Wolf-eyes would return before the darkness. It seems intangible ghosts wafted in the background just out at the edges of Callian's peripheral vision.
He walked around the grass oasis, feeling the softness of the earth beneath his feet. It was nothing like walking on sand. The only sound apart from Callian's breathing was the the verdant leaves of the tree which rustled under the soft whispering wind. The smells was fresh and moist not posessing the dryness of the desert air. He walked to the tombstone his eyes drawn to the carved mark of the Pentagon. Had she been a convert? Wolf-eyes did not seem that interested in the Pentagon. But at least someone had been but who exactly? Callian wasn't sure, and he didn't expect any answers from Wolf-eyes. Time passed in unknown quantities. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, apart from the slow and steady rhythm of his break and the rising and fall of his chest Callian did not move an inch. His eyes transfixed on the tombstone. Something flashed before Callian's eyes images he could not quite make sense of. Then darkness swept a heavy blanket over his eyes...

A dark summer night, stars twinkling above and powerful colors hidden in the shadows. Three male figures under the tree bent over a fourth a female. A smell of sweat wafted in the air and the fourth figure's breath was ragged.
“please... James...” a woman's voice said. The voice was weak and strained with pain. She was propped against the base of the tree, the swell of her belly left no one in doubt. Two of the others were hidden in the darkness talking in mute strange voices. A hulking man, broad shouldered, was crouched in front of the woman, in his callused hand he gently held hers caressing the back side softly with his thumb.
“Calm Keruh, breathe slowly.” his deep powerful voice was surprisingly soft. His facial expression hidden beneath the brim of a dark hat. With his free hand he wiped away the sweat from the woman's brow. Her face was clear, her dark eyes looking desperately at the two huddled figures next to her. Her oval shaped face plastered with raven hair.
“Please just save the baby.” she said and grunted from sudden pain.
One of the figures moved closer, his golden Wolf eyes glinting in the darkness.“We will do everything we can, Keruh-Vara.” Wolf-eyes said.

Callian hit the ground hard with a loud grunt the wind forced out of his lungs as he landed. He blinked his eyes watering, as single tear ran down his cheek. The memory of his vision trickled away, a fog closing on it as he lay his mind heavy on the ground. With a groan Callian moved to a sitting position, sweat drenched his shirt, his hair moist to his head and still now his breath was heavy and laborious. What had he seen? His memory failed him It was gone wafting away like smoke, but something about it persisted prodding at him like an intangible dream he would never catch. He felt dragged down by a sour mood, and Wolf-eyes' sad song about a birth and a death came to mind.
Grass crunched under heavy footsteps in the darkness and Callian turned his head to se into the shadows.
“Wolf-eyes?” His legs shaking beneath he arose, wiping the dirt from his clothes.
There was no reply and Callian could just about make out a lumbering form was moving slowly towards him. Something uttered an inhuman groan while darkened hands reaching out in Callian's direction.
“Yiaghe ui...” a rasping voice said.
Callian recognized the Elir language, but could not understand a word of it, damn he wished Wolf-eyes had been here. The Pentagon switched colors changing it's hue to the color of Malae. Under the light the intruder showed himself. He was thin, the body stripped of all fat, his legs like mere bony sticks. Skin stretched tight across his torso, so the ribs almost bulged out. His cheeks were sunken in showing his round cheekbones. A dead look across his face that looked haunted as he reached out with his both his hands towards Callian. In the light his skin looked sickly gray. his veins throbbing with a certain unnatural blackness to them. A reek exhumed from him, an acrid smell with a rot of flowers and tree mixed together with the freshness of the oasis.
Callian opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it, there was nothing that made Callian think the Elir knew Draekian. It didn't matter what he said. He tried lodging down the rising fear in the back of his head and kept his voice calm and level.
“Please come sit, I was making a fire, are you hungry?”
“Yiaghe ui!”the Elir screamed which then turned into a high pitched shriek. With a ferocious speed he began to run towards Callian. Eyes transfixed on Callian, the Elir intruder leap his thin skeletal body glowing in the now green light of the Pentagon.
Callian fell backwards from the weight of the Elir pressing down on him, saliva dripped from his mouth his mouth turned in a nasty hungry grin. With his one free hand Callian fought to stave him off, pressing his forearm into the throat of the Elir as his long nails dug into Callian's cheek.
“Yiaghe UI!” it was a helpless sob that uttered from the still attacking Elir, tears ran down his throat, his eyes rimmed red and insane. Callian was losing, his arm too weak to fight against the surprisingly strong attacker, he sucked in his breath hoping for someone or something to help him.
Callian screamed.
A howl roared joining in with Callian's scream in a horrible song of desperation. The Elir's eyes widened his attack losing it's power before he was suddenly thrown of Callian in a sudden blur.
A powerful growl rumbled the earth beneath Callian as he caught his breath lying perfectly still on the grass. Then silence, warm blood trickled down his cheek from the deep scratches. His breath laborious, if he had while Callian had been unconscious, he shook his head not daring to think of it. But what had saved him? He slowly made himself sit up. His head felt heavy, as if someone had attached an anvil to it.
Not far away, looming above the unmoving Elir was the shaggy fur of a beast the size of a small bear. It's chest heaved up and down as it stood still above his attacker, it's giant brick sized clawed paws pressing down onto his chest keeping the Elir pinned where he lay.
The beast turned it's broad round head, glowing blue eyes shining in the darkness as they transfixed on Callian blinking slowly before with predatory grace moved towards him. A dog, it was a dog with fur the color of night, it's sharp, long, wolfish ears attentive to every small sound. Grass crunching and whispered beneath it's movements. Tentatively he reached out his working arm to scratch the animal on it's head. It's fur was soft beneath it's touch and a low whimper uttered from it's mouth.
It licked him in the face, and Callian chuckled, before sputtering and turning away from the rough tongue.
“Ned.” Wolf-eyes stood by the cave mouth entrance. The dog had turned it's head, it's dark tail wagging back and forth. “Do not feel afraid.”
He fell back down onto the ground, his body shaking from everything. Deep down he did not feel afraid, rather he felt... relieved.
The Path of the Pentagon shone in the night and Callian couldn't really decide whether someone up there hated his guts or that he was born lucky.

Huh.

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 16:12:38 GMT

I am thinking of overhauling this LJ, make it more manageable maybe more easy on the eyes and fancy schmancy. Not deleting anything from it though.
and maybe some more often updates other than the random rough draft shitty snips once in a while.
We'll see. in the meantime here's a Poem;

I sat all night and kissed her tears away,
allaying her salty fears upon her face.
In silence we sat, no more to say
Feeling her warmth in our sad embrace.
Gone I am, my love, a man who must stray
Home is where the heart is, and my heart has no place.

Celeste 3 the last one, before the massacre.

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 01:41:31 GMT

Trees covered them in, shutting them off from the world as if only they were alive, just the two of them. Forever Celeste could get lost in Angus shining blue eyes. Frogs croaked in the distance, the water lay calm and dark at night, Celeste shivered even though Angus had offered his jacket to her, the cold night of Octen evening. She leaned close feeling his warmth closing her eyes, sighing contently.
She had to go back soon she knew, even now Edward was already covering for her, even though he was loathe to do.
Angus wrapped his one arm around her waist drawing her closer to him, and his warm body.
It had taken her months to even get so close to him without him running away, and she never wanted to break
”That Serape, you never wear it, but you keep and act like it's very precious to you.”
”My father's.” he half-croaked it out, like it was a pain that sat raw in his throat.
”I'm sorry.” she inched closer, letting a hand slide across his back, to the nape of his neck. She closed her eyes, taking in the scent and feel of him, his muscles for the first time under her caress relaxing.
”No, it's fine.” He cleared his throat, ”He got shot when I was three while playing cards. It's all I got left of him.” there was a pause, before he whsipered silently in her ear, ”Celeste, open your eyes and look.”
She settle herself against his shoulder opening her eyes.
Light ranging from green to blue, to red and finally yellow, played across the small pond, silent tinkling of bells ringed as the multihued flying colors moved around, lighting up the darkness and the conture of Angus' face.
”They're beautiful.” she whispered as she looked upon the pond.
”It's Mindu-fairies, they only come out at night. The tinkling is a mating song. The blue and green ones are males, and the red and yellow ones are female.” he explained.
The fairies danced in concert with each other, as each blue found a yellow and each green found a red, they lit before disappearing a small shover of sprinkling dust.
”They only do this once every ten years. My uncle showed me when I was a kid. They mate for life, my uncle said.”
Their hands found each other then, and they sat in the light of the Fairies, watching them finding love holding hands, Celeste heart surged under the callused hands of Angus, and she turned her head looking directly into Angus' eyes.
”Why aren't you looking at them.” She smiled.
”Because I'd rather look at you.” A hand cupped her cheek, and time stood still, as she leaned close, feeling the hotness of his breath upon her face before their lips met.
She should've gone home that night, but she would've never forgiven herself.
They talked for hours, of Angus and his family, about everything, until there was nothing more to say.
That night, they found each other. And she was not cold.
As morning cracked through the trees, the Mindu-fairies long gone, Celeste lay covered by Angus coat, sweat glistening on her naked breast, his fingers running from her buttocks to her neck.
In her eyes she saw something she had never seen before, letting a look that said to him, ”I love you, I will never leave you.”
For the first time, Celeste saw him smile.

Celeste! numero dos

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 23:59:00 GMT

Under the golden chandlier, beneath the gleaming moonlight of the night, the last vestiges of the string quartet sounded off the last bit of the melody, annoucing the dance to be over. Celeste's feet hurt like hell, and like other quickly spread away from the dancing line hoping innerly she had placated Tylar's advances for tonight. She had no wish to dance with him more tonight. Around the corners soldiers stood tall and proud, guarding the rich people's kids from harm on this night.
The Torn and Iel Priory dance, where the two schools met publicly.
Edward, she had noted, stood in a corner leaning up against one of the indoor pillars talking to Richette, the pretty brunette from Celeste's class.
Pretty but her head was as empty as a Roundball. He did rather like the daft ones Celeste decided.
”May I get you a drink, Celeste?” Tylar had followed her silently, and now took her hand as if he had been given permission, he smiled, dimples showing in his freckled face.
He wasn't ugly, tall, and broad from playing many sports, and did send many of her classmates swooning.
But Celeste had already decided years ago, Tylar was as interesting as a bag of bricks.
She saw him, almost hiding behind a pillar as if his own classmates were monsters frivloing around, his blue eyes burning even in the darkness.
She WAS thirsty, and it would get Tylar of her back for a few moments.
”Yes, please a drink would be pleasent.”
Tylar made what he thought was a graceful bow, but Celeste had seen more grace out of a bull than Tylar. He danced very much the same way. He wandered out of the way, leaving Celeste alone to stalk her prey.
Though it was hard to do, while wearing her verdant green and white dress, making her look in her own eyes like a poisonous lollipop.
He didn't seem to be wearing anything particularly impressive, simple earth toned jacket and pants, with a black cravat in a almost white, shirt.
He wasn't one for money it seemed, but then again, Celeste had figured as much from their earlier meeting. His hair was still somewhat unruly, like he could never quite get it under control, and he constantly stood striaght like he was a soldier settling into a line with his mates.
Amazingly, he never did seem to notice her as she snuck past friends standing in a hurdle to walk onto the otherside of the pillar, she wasn't really sure if she wanted to say 'Booh!' or merely clear her throat, but she wasn't about to let him disappear without at least saying more than one sentence.
”you move quiet for one in high-heels.” He turned, seemingly unsurprised that she was standing there, hands outstretched preparing to give him the scare of a lifetime. They fell slack to the ground and she pouted disappointed.
No sense in getting fazed, come one Celeste!
”Oh so you do speak!” she crossed her arms, ”I wondered about that. I figured you as slow.” she just hoped he wouldn't get insulted, and would rather take the bait.
A second dance flared off, and many took up into one straight line their feet deafened by the orchestra.
”boyfriend's lookin' for ya.” he said, glancing quickly out onto the dancefloor, and it was true Tylar was holding two glasses of punch in one hand while carefully trying to avoid several slobbering girls from the class above her.
She turned back, puffing annoyed about the boyfriend comment. ”He is not my boyfriend.”
”Still lookin' for you.” he said.
”Trying to get rid of me already?” she pouted again, not sure whether he was joking or not, or whatever the hell he was thinking.
”Yes.” he replied flatly.
”Well you know.” Celeste unclenched her hands gripping his arms, ”Whoever taught you about the Summer dance got it all wrong, you aren't supposed to hide, you're supposed to mingle.”
”I aint here because I want to be.” he snorted and gave her a half smile.
”Oh? Someone dragged you here?”
He did not reply but pointed, over to the left of the dancing room up the curving broad stairs decked out with a silvery carpet stood Father Villalobos in his plain brown robes overlooking the whole dance.
The growns-up was up there, talking, making their backhand deals. Her father at this very minute was probably trying to create some damned marriage deal for her.
”Excuse me.” he slided away from her grip as if she was burning his arm with her touch and put his hand in his pockets. He blinked once, and glided gracefully out of her way. She turned and scowled in his direction as he passed.
”You know what?” she sighed. ”you're annoying!”
”And a Goodnight to you, Lady Belrose.” he did not look back, quickly finding the door and walked into the night.
She stood stunned that a second time without even looking back had walked away from her, No-one walked away from her, she walked away from them!
Determined she began to pace after him, disappearing out the door before her father, her brother nad for god's sake Tylar would see where she had gone.
She followed him in the chill summer night, walking directly towards the huge garden that encompassed the Belrose estate.
Muffled music and general jovial mutterings was heard from the inside, but Celeste ignored them trying to follow instep with Angus with had the advantage of the long legs.
Halfway there, with Angus gaining a certain distance, Celeste angrily discarded her shoes, throwing them across the lawn.
”Aren't you going to stop?” she called out to him.
”Nope.”
Determined she drew up the length of her dress and tried to follow Angus again.
”Where are you going? Where do you live?”
He stopped, he actually stopped, turning around looking exhasperated as Celeste gained on him, before they finally stood in front of each other with mere inches between them.
”What do you want?” His voice became raspy, his eyes hard, and suddenly it seemed for the first time in Celeste's life she was at a loss for words.
”I want to get to know you, is that so bad?”
”Well, uh-”
”HEY!” Oh no, Tylar had found them, she could hear on his voice, that certain high pitched slant it got when he became jealous.
This was going to end well. She turned around, seeing that not only was Tylar walking towards them, hands curled into fists, but so was Edward.
”Get your hands of her!” Edward pointed accussingly with one fingers, and if Celeste did not know the seriousness of it all, she would've laughed, he had never touched her.
Tylar a big brute was one thing, and with Edward along.
”Run.” She turned her head and pleaded him, but he seemed to stand perfectly still.
He was most like a head taller than both the men, but their build was stockier compared to his lanky body. He would have no chance.
”I'm so sorry.” She felt a tear run down her cheek.
He gently put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her out of the way as Tylar came into the vicinity.
Celeste found herself finding a place on the sideline, pleading for her brother and Tylar to stop.
They did not.
Tylar was the first one who arrived, sending a brick sized fist towards Angus' head, that would most surely loosen teeth.
If it had hit.
Angus took one single step, and with startingly quick body movements jerked out of the fist's path, letting it hit air above Angus' right shoulder.
His hands snaked around Tylar's putting them into a firm lock as Angus set his right foot on the back side of Tylar's knees pressing him down into the dirt, and the amazingly he let go, letting Tylar fall face down into the gravel.
It made Edward hesistate seeing his friend eliminated so quickly, and efficiently by the thin Angus.
”I aint gonna fight you. Gonna turn around and I am gonna go.”
Edward took a step forward growling before thinking the better of it, hearing Tylar groaning on the gravel.
”Alright.” he sighed, but you leave my sister alone. He puffed up his chest, even though he knew that Angus could probably throw him to the ground in a heartbeat.
Angus did not reply, his blue eyes blazed in the moonlight. He held up his hands in assent before taking two steps backwards and then set into a fast sprint.
Edward turned to Celeste, hands on his hips looking very disapproving, ”I am very disappointed with you!”
”oh really!” she snapped, ”Just not disappointed you had to break off your kissing session with Richette!”
Edward inhaled, his finger waving in the air, before letting out the air, ”Don't tell father about this.”
”Likewise.” she said arm scrossed, ”Now, Let's get Tylar inside.”

Celeste!

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 21:13:06 GMT

The trees were richly green, the ripples of the lake were smooth, lovers and courtiers of all ages, in gently rocking boats caressed the waters.
The weather was hot, in the early afternoon. A truly manigficent day if only her brother would keep her mouth shut.
”Oh Edward please,” Celeste snorted in a very unlady like manner, ”No more discussion of bloody politics, we're here to enjoy ourselves.” Celeste shook her head sadly at her brother who gleefully and with a crooked grin propped a strawberrry into his mouth.
”Rather fine weather, My lady.” Tylar changed the subject quickly, and inwardly Celeste groaned. Always trying to please her, poor sod. Ignoring Tylar's attention as nicely as she could, Celeste looked down and correcting her dress a bit, wiping some imaginary dirty away from her light sky blue dress she had decided to wear today.
She gave an annoyed sigh. ”I do wish I wouldn't have to wear a dress today, I cannot play round ball like this!”
Edward clicked his tongue, even with his mouth full of fruit he was a man not prone to keeping his mouth shut. ”Very unlady like sport, sister.”
Tylar and Seyle murmured in assent though Celeste merely glowered at her brother, that same brother who had taught her Cards, drinking wheksen and playing round ball.
”Is it now? Remind me that next time I am winning.” She lifted her chin into the air and perked her head to the side giving her brother a silent 'Hah'.
Edward did not seem to care, as he merely winked and propped another strawberry into his mouth, chewing for a few seconds before opening his mouth wide.
Celeste looked away in disgust shielding her eyes, uttering a sound reminiscent of ”Ew!”.
She saw him then, tall, lanky propped up against the shade of a hige tree, a dusty old tome in his hands, dark blonde hair falling down infront of his face.
”So anyway, it seems my father wants to Validate the creation of the second platoon for some reason, I do not quite understand.” Edward blabbed on with Tylar.
Celeste imagined Seyle looking sdilently awestruck by the two men's most 'interesting' conversation, bashing her eyelids.
Celeste kept her eyes fixed on the man, he was their age, most like taller than most though, but he had certain transfixed stare as he read his book, his front teeth lightly biting his lower lip, enraptured by it.
Compared to Edward who looked increasingly bored whenever he opened one.
”Who's that man over there?” Celeste almost pointed.
”And well I-” Edward stopped mid speech and raised and eyebrow.
”Over there, by the tree, Ed.”
”Well, well!” Tylar chuckled for himself, and Celeste could see his whole body tense.
”Oh that guy!” Edward finally saw him. ”Just some weirdo from our class as the Torn-Priory, Father Villalobos golden boy.” Edward said that with a sneer and clear annoyance before turning his attention away and as always everyone else's followed Edward's lead.
”My father wished me to join a Cavalry, though I feel I could do more as one of Colonel Ydris' Greycloaks.”
Celeste groaned inwardly for a second time, this was not the reason she had talked Edward and their friends to go out for a picnic, to talk about the same damned thing that they talked about at home around the dinner table as Father paraded them around as trophees, nor the girly idiotic talk of the Iel-Priory talking about who was handsome and which young lord would look great in a uniform.
Giving off a growl, Celeste sprang to her feet, and walked away, hearing her brother call after her, but she did not care.
She found herself within moments by the same tree as the man reading, his long sharp nose still buried deeply into the time as Celeste stopped up close beside him.
Rumors damned.
She cleared her throat, ”Hello.”
He moved slowly, setting a thum upon the page he was reading and looked up. She was stricken by his glowing blue eyes, so uncanny it made her feel a certain trembling in her legs. He was a strange looking man, he possessed sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, but no beard grew on his chin. His skin was darker than most people, and Celeste wondering whether he was from the Free-states.
He blinked, looking more bothered about the disturbance than nervous about talking to the famed Celeste Belrose, the wild-rose of Draeklynn as the rumor circulated.
”Celeste!” her brother called out, but had probably still not brother to actually stand up and forcefully carry her away.
She waited for the a returning hello that never came and finally she exhaled before she decided to speak again. ”May I sit?” She gestured to the dark red carpet made of wool which he sat on, though it looked it was an oddly shaped, with curvy lines that reminded Celeste of the Elir effects she had seen at school.
”It aint my park.” he shrugged, he had a quiet voice, soft, rather, and he seemed reluctant to speak. His were eyes pinched slightly together from the shade of the sun.
”No. It's mine actually.” reluctantly she sat down next to the man, giving him an odd look, didn't he know who she was?
”Well, my father's actually.” she smiled as sweetly as she could.
”Hm.” he grunted before returning to his book.
Celeste peered over her shoulder wondering what was so interesting about the book, that could make him ignore her so nonchalantly!
She was trying to being a conversation here!
Weird sharp runes flowed down the pages, with colorings of the swords, lions and dragons marked the sides.
”What are you reading?”
He looked at her then, drawing his head slight backwards as if they were too close, with a quick snap, he had closed the book, and his blue eyes blinked.
”About the Wyrm-king.” he replied.
”Ah.” Celeste nodded, ”you don't talk much do you?”
”Excuse me.” He got to his feet, carrying the book under one arm, as he grabbed the ends of the blanket, gesturing for Celeste to jump off.
She did so with an unhappy grunt and brushed off a few leaves that had fallen onto her lap. Then she saw that it was a blanket they had been sitting on, but a Serape of a sort, something seen more out west rather in the middle of a Capital of Draek. He gathered the Serape in the other hand, turned around to leave.
Celeste felt herself panic for reasons unknown to her, and found herself half shouting, ”My name's Celeste what's yours?”
He stopped, having taken one slow step, it seemed as if everything he did was in so in deliberate moved, the placement of his hands, the current tilt of his head, the rise of a brow.
”Angus.” He raised two fingers to his temple in a goodbye before turning around once again, and walked down the small hill onto the road passing by a man walking his dog around the small lake.
Celeste stood frozen in her place,
”What a peculiar fellow.” she muttered aloud. But she really wanted to see him again.

Pacing is off

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 13:59:55 GMT

”Saw Declan Nash in town, with a couple of cowboys I recognized.”
”Declan Nash...” Jediun tasted the name upon his name and sneered, ”Just what we needed.” He swore in his head, before whispering quietly to Dereckt. ”Tell the others, this could get ugly.” It had gotten ugly the last time they had met Declan Nash. Question that nagged Jediun though,, How the hell had Herrek gotten ahold of Declan Nash? Everyone turned their horses around, Stevnes had told his cowboys to stay at the ranch, riding alone with the Sheriff and The Seventh back into town.
Jediun motioned for Heimir ride on the other side of Stevnes with the Sheriff to the other. Thicke prob ably didn't have the relfex to catch Stevnes if he rode off. Heimir was for such a big man deceptively fast.
Ulgan caught up with them on the ride ride back to town, before the others caught up Jediun sent him on his way, to sneak into the town and find a good sniping position. Nothing might happened, but his father had taught him early enough, that one should always assume the worst.
It was in Late afternoon riding at a calm trot they rode into the town. It was very big, one general store, owned by Thicke himself, but several houses were sprouting up several different places, a whorehouse had recenttly opened, and the last time Jediun had been in town mere days ago it has bustled with activity. It was a Crossroads town, meaning many travellers came through either passing into the mountains to find gold, or head down south to Aspin.
Streets were empty now.
”Dayum where did people go?” Thicke did not seem to understand situation as they rode into town, a smile still on his lips and a innocent facial expression as the looked around the empty streets.
Jediun was purveying the could-be battlefield.
They all dismounted at the liverystables, the Seventh merely tied up their horses.
The sheriff and Stevnes put their horses in a booth in the livery stables, the owner nowhere to be seen.
”Expect trouble.” Jediun said to his men. Though nothing stirred on the streets. He did not expect an ambush, Ulgan would've marked a warning if there had been such a thing as they rode close to town.
Besides Nash was the kind of guy who loved to take things head on. Mano-y-mano.
”Bingo.” Ferden pointed with a long finger down the street as eight men materialised from the Saloon. Seven of them wore the chaps of a Cowboy, a revolver holster bound to the thigh, broad hats and sweat stained scarfs at their neck. One or two walked unsurely, as if they couldn't quite keep their balance. Other glanced nervously to all side, the way they moved, their slow movements with their arms along with their jerky head told Jediun once thing, they were shit-scared. Except one-guy, Declan Nash wore the trademark grey-coat of a Grey-man officer, a frontier lawman who was judge, jury, and executioner, protecting the interests of the country through protecting the borders and dealing with savage Elir.
”Damned fool, he's had to drink some of them drunk.” Kilan gave a loud unlady like snort as she loaded checked her revolver for bullets.
”Damn me to hell!” Thicke muttered from behind Jediun. He had pulled his hat backwards, scratching the thinning top with a shocked expression.
”They're here for Stevnes. Herrek wants requital for the theft of his cattle.”
”I thought you guys were working for him.”
”Guess we weren't satisfactory.” Ferden patted his black mount before adjusting his gunbelt a bit.
”I recognize some of them as Herrek's boys, but that guy in the grey jacket, who's that.”
”Declan Nash, former Grey-coat officer, now gun-for-hire.”
”Torndamned shit, the Hillsbury Butcher?” Thicke took a single stepped back before he realized what he was doing. He looked down, and Jediun knew what he was considering. The tin-star gleamed in the sunlight, he sighed heavily and shrugged.
Jediun noticed the missing prisoner, all of a sudden, ”Where's Stevnes?”
”Cuffed him to a pole in the Stables when I saw them guys walking down the street. Well... you brought me into this mess,” he gave Jediun and the rest of the Seventh a shaky grin. ”Mind gettin' me out?”
The Seventh settled into one straight line spread across the broad mainstreet, the only street in town. Jediun bid Thicke follow and he quick settled into the line in the outer edge to Jediun's right, next to Dereckt who held in his hands his doublebarreled shotgun.
”Damn what a day to need your deputies.” He grumbled as they took those long steps towards Declan and Herrek's cowboys.
They met half-way, stopping in front of Thicke's own general storw which also functioned as the Sheriff's office.
Declan was a sharp man, sharp in features with long hair, caressing his shoulders, and a rather dapper dress code beneath the worn Grey-coat. He smiled, and in his eyes Jediun noted the reocnizeable wicked gleam he had seen a few years back, mere weeks after the Hillsbury Slaughter.
”All he wants is Stevnes, and his cattleback.” He had a nasal voiced that already grated Jediun's nerves, but he kept himself rigids, a straight back, assessing each one of the men infront of them.
None were the coldhearted killer Declan Nash was supposed to be, Jediun could easily see it.
”He'll get his cattle, but Stevnes is in custody, Sheriff Thicke's custody.” Jediun nodded over at Sheriff Thicke who cringed at hearing his own name.

Alara and Priest.

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 03:12:51 GMT

Married, him?
It was never really a combination which Alara had thought about, the closed and aloof Priest in a married life. It had been painful to say it, while Priest said nothing and would probably deny it, she saw the moistness at the edges of his stark blue eyes.
So the monster was human after all. Though she knew the memory was like torture to the cold gunslinger, or maybe because of it, she asked one last question.
”Was she beautiful?”
Priest swallowed hard, turning around sharply to exit the small room, ”She was to me.” he almost faltered, choked on the words, but Alara heard them. When he had left, she climbed into her pallet, pain surging through her body, not physical pain, but something primal and forceful that made her cry deep into the night.
With four words, Priest had said it all.

Priest Becomes.

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 01:19:55 GMT

It's interesting how easy your own rage and pain can become something effective.
Now I really like this, but to other's eyes I might've oversold it, who knows, not even sure it's gonna be in the book, but I felt it was necessary to get into words.
A fair warning, slaughtery, bloody and horrible things after the jump, such as implied rape and most certain a baby being shot.

”Please don't do this, Sir.” Angus clenched his hand, ignoring, the dark shadows of men dressed in grey appaeraing at the outskird of the forest clearing. From bushes and behind trees, men on foot and on horses slowly circled in.
His look had said anyhting, the hard clenched jaw in his stern face, his dark eyes looking and surveying over the coming battlefield. Herrek rode beside him, looking smug as ever, licking his lips as if he was at some whore house. Zachayah and Hodgens sat next to each other on their horses, Zachayah avoided looking directly at Angus, while Hodgens looked pale, with a blank face.
Angus knew behind him, Celeste stood clutching their little daughter in her arms. His hands shook, as well as his legs, moist tear brimming at the edge of his eyes. He had no gunbelt, and his Elir visitors were merely 15 strong, with no weapons between them. Until now, they had had no use for weapons out here. Angus, in effect had brought them to ruin, he knew that now.
”You sacked the camp earlier, didn't you?.” Angus pointed an accussing finger at Nelson. His mentor, his friend, his killer.
Nelson kept quiet, his clenching and unclenching his own hand, the leather gloves creaking loudly.
A bird sang in the distance, a played with the tall strong trees of the ancient forest. The sun had earlier illuminated, the hut Angus had built for his family, for His wife and daughter. For their future.
This was too good a day to die.
”Say something you son of a bitch!” Angus roared, his angry voice carried through the forest sending bird into flight, the song stopped immediately, replaced by his daughter's wailing.
”THEY HAVE MY SON!” Nelson shouted back, spittle flying form his mouth, a wild-eye in his face, a tear trickling down his cheek.
”My last son...”
”General, you don't have to-” Herrek tried to say something, but Nelson held up a hand to keep him quiet.
”At least, let my wife and child live.”
”We can't do that.” Nelson shook his head. ”You know who you are. It can finish the war.”
”He doesn't have to know. Belrose wouldn't have to know!” Angus cried.
”He would know.”
”He would kill his own daughter and granddaughter then?” Angus knew there was no way out of it. He had no gun, no rifle, but he had his Uncle's dark metaled ternawk clutched in his right hand.
Nelson held up his hand to signfy a charge, he held up there in there, taking one last look at Angus, that look lasted seconds, but felt to Angus like minutes, even hours as Nelson signalled for the death sentence of unarmed innocent people.
The hand dropped, like stone into the rippling waters, and the 50 soldiers began to slowly move. Angus took one quick look at everyone, hidden beneath their new Grey- colored uniforms, signifying their jump to the other side of the war.
The Death Sentence had been given. At least Angus was not quite that innocent.
”So be it them.” He muttered under his breath, a gravelly raspy voice, he never knew he had rose from his mouth. The wind seemingly carrying it to the ears of Nelson and the others.
”Celeste RUN!” He roared, and uttered animalistic bearlike growl from the pit of his stomach. He flung his ternawk, letting it fly through the air.
It would not miss.
”General!” Herrek called out. Screaming horses and gunfire began, but did nothing to lessing the sound of the screaming people as bullets tore through their bodies.
Angus did not see the Ternawk hit, as a bullet tore through his upper body and he fell backwards onto the ground, green fresh grass sticking into his mouth and nostrils. He could not move, as he felt another bullet tear through him.
He screamed as loudly as he could, turning his head, just enough to see the fifteen young Elir tribesmen who had visited them, getting cut down by repeated gunfire.
Celeste ran, clutching the small bundle that was their beautiful daughter in her arms.
”Celeste, don't look back!” He called out to her, and she didn't, she ran, her green dress flailing to all sides, as she passed in the tall grass. Their daughter screaming as they made their flight.
That was until the worst sound of gunfire Angus had heard cracked above all else, and Celeste fell. Their daughter's crying continued as soldiers, no butchers, circled around them in a ring, one raised a pistol, cocking the hammer, they were no more than forty feet away.
The revolver discharged, his daughter crying stopped.
”NOO!” He moved slowly, crawling with one arm as he found the other did not function anymore.
”Bear!” His wife's voice wailed. One man was moving towards her, a wide grin upon his face, as he loosened his belt, and dropped his pants before lowering himself.
He crawled as fast as he could, until a third gunshot stopped him.
”Stay still you whore!” Herrek's screamed. He walked into Priest's line of view, in one hand holding a smoking revolver, in the other a profusely bleeding arm. He spat, his spittle lined with blood, before moving away. Almost falling before someone offered him help, he pushed away. He looked over his head, his weasel like face narrowed at Angus, he was not just bleeding on his arm, but his face and in his mouth where he had lost a few teeth. ”Watch this.” he said with a wicked gleam in his eyes. He threw his revolver away, and with one hand dropped his pants as he stopped in the tall grass where Celeste had fallen.
”MOVE!” he kicked at someone who grunted loudly. He lowered himself, a knife in one hand.
His wife was crying, and there was nothing he could do, he could feel blood trickle out of him, his eyes becomming heavy, and blurry with tears.
Sound was a torturous cacophony, his wife, screaming and crying, sounds of Herrek laughing and grunt, as he violated Angus' wife. At this moment, this very day, he wished he had been born blind, and deaf.
He could not move anymore, as he grew weaker, blood flowing from his wounds, turning the grass beneath him crimson. Not even his head could he turn away from the deadful events. All he could do was lie there, and scream and rage and curse the men who had done this.
A hand came to rest on his shoulders, his own bloodied ternawk came before his eyes.
”This is yours.” A voice whispered in his ear, and threw the ternawk in the ground before walking away.
A fire suddenly blazed from the wooden hut, a hut he had built himself.
Fire licked around it's tree-walls, blackening it, before it would crumble from the raging fire.
Smoke rose through the tree in the clearing into the blue sky, and with it, Angus' life, and future.
It over in a heartbeat, and suddenly, the grey soldiers packed their things, with no real sign and a silence descended over the forest clearing. Flames and wood still thought eachother at the hut, but no bird sang here, no whispering wind amidst the trees.
Angus closed his eyes, all that he could was death, blood, death and a fire still burning.
”Angus...” a voice croaked, broken and weak called out, followed by a cough.
”Celeste!” Angus bit down, pressing his teeth together and roared like a bear. He pinched his eyes, tried to move, slowly at first, as pain jolted through him from his gunshot wounds with each tiny movement. A first a finger, then his arm, and ever slowly he dragged himself forward, towards his wife, gaining strength with each move.
Rage, sorrow and love fueled his every move, tears streamed down his face, as he couldn't control them.
He chanted his wife's name with every move, never letting it go from his tongue, never letting her broad smile from her narrow lips, her glistening green eyes disappear from his memory.
He crawled over the tall grass, and in front of him she lay, blood streaming from a leg wound in her thight, and a wound in her lower gut. Her dress had been torn and her face was all swollen black and red with bruises and blood. Several teeth had been knocked out of her mouth, and fresh tears marked her face.
On his right. He could not look right, he could not.
On his right lay the still form of his baby daughter, a gunshot hard torn through her little head, there was not much left.
Angus stopped and vomitted, trying to stop a shaking hand, and a failing body.
He looked away, knwoing he didn't have long crawling to his dying wife.
She looked even worse up close, half naked, and broken, beyond saving.
A pool of blood lying beneath her, a dead gleam in her green eyes, which cut through Angus, and was even a bigger pain that his gunshot wounds.
He fought himself to a sitting position, using the last vestiges of strength to take his wife into a hug.
”It's all gone, isn't?” her voice was cracked and ruined, hoarse. ”Samaire, our daughter?”
Angus could not make the words come out. The butt of the knife in Celeste's stomach jutted into his own, a constant remainder of the death sentence which Nelson had given with a simple drop of the hand.
”It's all gone.” He finally fought out hoarse, gravelly words. Slow he fought with his not working hand into moving, wrapping bloodied fingers around the knife in his wife's gut and pulled it out.
She gasped, and gurgled blood, fresh tears coming, Angus would never, not even in the after life, finish crying. He fought his arm with the knife in hand towards Celeste's chest, right where her heart beat weakly in her chest. He could feel it, hear it, as he could smell the death in the air.
He hugged his wife close, emitting a sad howling sound from his throat. His sharp blue eyes suddenly become dry, Emitting a sudden glow, as if a fire raged in there, his face turned to stone, and a beast grew inside him, a deadly killing beast.
She opened her mouth as the knife bit into her chest, life ebbed from her eyes quickly.
Finally her dead body slumped against Angus, and he fell backwards onto the ground, as a cushion against his dead wife's fall.
The words on his lips, all those who had betrayed him, all those who had wronged him. He remembered and cursed them all.
Angus closed his eyes to die.

”How do you feel?” The old man's voice asked, he had a sad look on his face, which was perked a little bit to the left. He was wrinkled and gray, his eyes pinched together, scars all over his still strong body.
”Alive.” Priest responded his voice sounds like he had risen from the grave.
The old man did not feel a need to respond.
He moved his cigarette from left to right. A packed saddlebag is sitting in front of him, the dark metal ternawk is in his belt. A belt with a hip and crossdraw holster, each one with a big black revolver. Priest finishing buttoning his light blue shirt tucking it into his faded dark green military trousers. He felt sore from the healed bullet wounds, one in the arms in a leg, and one in his gut, everytime he breathed, a sharp pain tugged at all three places.
He sneered, the sour taste of the cigarette made him do that. His hard blue eyes pinched together as if he was constantly scowling. He scratched his white-haired beard with one hand. The other one constantly on the grip of his hip placed revolver. His hair had been blonde once. He had for the first time in three months looked himself in a mirror, or rather a lake. The wavy image making him look like a wild man.
His hair had grown long, not quite to his shoulders, but he felt no need to cut it. His wife had done that for him.
”When will you leave then?” The old man sat with a stringed instrument in his idly touching the strings, playing a soft tune. They looked alike, both of then possess high marked cheekbones, though Priest's nose was long and thin, the old man's was broad and broken several places, and even a little crooked.
While they may have been blood related, the old man was not his family. That was gone.
”Now, Adda.” Priest replied, putting on his blood red Serape, finallizing it all with black flat-topped hat.
”In the middle of the night?”
”No sense in stayin'.” he blew out the acrid smoke of the cigarette but it could never overcome the lodged in scent of death and decay in Priest's nostrils.
”It's coming,” The old man shook his head sadly, ”ending of days and sun.” he swallowed hard.
”You want me to forget them, old man? I aint gonna do that.” Priest rasped. He picked up his packed saddle and saddlebag with one arm, and in the other held a long rifle in a holster. Half his face was obscured by the shadows of his hat, except for his fiery raging eyes.
”Then what will you do?”
”Kill them. Kill them all.”
”It is a path of darkness you will travel down, Angus Lonesome-bear. Your mother would be sad to see you like this.” The old man shook his head sadly.
”My mother's dead. So's Angus.” Priest turned his back to the man, his so-called grandfather, and walked out into the darkness.

Character writing analysis.

Sun, 02 Dec 2007 22:36:47 GMT

you can have a lot of different characters based on mold, it's the subtle differences that in the end makes unique. Our standpoints or maybe whether or not we like Chocolate, I guess.
Though I occurred to me the other day I as an other used a general mold to create my heroes.
Military background, male, no real family to speak of og they're disconnected from their world's social life.
I love writing about disconnected people. It's a greek subtle tragedy that trascends personal tragedy's in the story. It's deeply rooted within the character and like a uncurable disease it can never disappear. Not truly.
Examples of such characters could Batman, or Philip Marlowe.
My own examples, my best shining example I assume is the sour Knight and detective Murphy. Which is not even his real name.
He's a man, too far away, disconnected at an early age from what the world would see as normal. Even though human with human vices in drinka nd maybe even women, As I don't see Murphy as an Asexual character.
He is an honed sword. A man raised to kill. But what happens when those swords are no longer needed. Murphy wanders, the continent in which the story of No Quarter and hopefully more stories will take place. He doesn't know what he's looking for but he does know what he isn't looking for. Death and more murder. But still it finds him. All he has is his dark blade and his silent horse, to which to do his dirty work. Dirty work it is, but in this world it is necessary. Who else could help the young girl get the boy back from the clutches of the father. Most knight are bound by noble politics.
Murphy is not. He is a Knight-errant. Barely making ends meet fighting in tourneys. Perhaps not even for winning. If he fights to win, he kills.
As a disconnected man, Murphy reaches out. to the girl, to justice to feel a short quick connection with the world around him. The Outsider enters the Inside world for a short span of time.
But it's always a short span. Even if Murphy wanted to have a wife and a score of kids and settle down and maybe raise horses or become a blacksmith, living comfortably somewhere. Could he?
To set in the ways set by his old master, and his teacher Eremund Greywolfe. No matter how many times a Disconnected character reaches out, a well meaning outstretched to a fallen person, as soon as that person is standing on his feet?
The outstretched hand is on the blade by his side. Always roaming, never settling in one place.
Peace for a character such as this is not in the warmth of a woman or the firing hearth or the laugh of a child or several. Peace lies for them in the cold death by a blade in the dark or not.

"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
- George Orwell

and for that.... the Rough men never sleep... well.

The Stranger talking to Death.

Wed, 22 Aug 2007 20:21:05 GMT

The masked man in the red flowing robe was odd to look at, so out of place compared to the grayness of his environments. The lush trees even had a shade of gray. Then there was another man. Though his hair was dark, and his eyes still was as blue as ever. The stubble was gone as well and so was the haunting sadness, which usually marred his face. He seemed confused and frightened. He wore a soldier’s outfit, though in the shade of green as if to mix between the forests and hillsides. He looked almost regal standing there, his back straight, the green uniform so neat and clean.
“Sit.” the masked man bade the soldier in his calm tone. The sound of the wind howled in the forest clearing swaying the colorless trees. The two men, red and green, colors of blood and grass sat across from each other staring intently.
“What must I call you?” the masked man asked, his mask turning into a frown though the mouth never moved.
“What must I call you?” the soldier asked back.
“Hm. so many years since someone asked me that. I cannot remember my birth name nor my life before this.” he shook his head. “I am Death, I guess. The judgment, the final thing. The end.”
“Figured as much.” The tone was the same one the one the Stranger had that brooding and angry one filled with a lifetime of bitterness.
“Indeed. Shall I call you Little cub, or Priest? Maybe Lonesome Bear or Na…”
The soldier cut in, “Not that name, anything else is alright.”
“Alright, Cub.” Death nodded, “For a man with no name, you do seem to have a lot.” Death paused, So you feel you are not that man anymore?”
“That man is dead.” Cub said firmly.
“Maybe he is, or he is just buried deep inside.” Death tapped his chest where was heart usually were.
Cub looked around, like he suddenly recognized the place like it was some distant memory. The rock formation making a simple cave, the grassy ground and lush trees.
“Yes, the place you were born.” Death affirmed. “I take them I judge where they were born.”
“Surely not all of them.”
“No.” Death admitted “Not all. Only the ones who had great destinies or have great destinies.”
Cub emit a sound unmistakable to laughing, “You think I had a great destiny?”
“You’re not dead yet.” Death pointed out.
“Not yet…”
Death got up from his seat, reaching out for Cub’s hand. Cub, the Soldier, took it.
“What you see here is the in between.” He swept his free hand as he helped Cub get on his feet. The world shimmered after Death’s movement. The mask was now impassive, stone face in a non-feature like expression. The soldier, the Stranger, Cub looking out into the horizon and then back at the masked and very much shorter man beside him. Death let him through close grown trees of the forest. It was an odd sensation the whole place having no life what so ever, no birds or small rodents. The whole place was silent as well except for a howling wind even though it seemed like there was only a slight breeze swaying the trees back and forth. Death’s robe moved not an inch, unless it was his legs making the movement. Cub looked around the area, taking in the nature looking in wonderment at the forest.
“No birds?”
“This is the inbetween.” Death merely said. “Life is not allowed here.”
“Except for judgment?”
“Yes except for judgment.” Death nodded, and let Cub further into the forest. They walked for what seemed like an hour. Death held Cub’s hand tightly like one would a grandchild.
They stopped suddenly, on the ridge of a hill, a town was peaking out of the horizon out of nowhere, they stopped here.
“Recognize this place?”
“I do.” Cub admitted and found a smooth stone to sit on. “The one town in Drynn Valley I will always remember but never come back to.”
“If you die now.” Death laying a hand on Cub’s shoulder. “Will someone weep for your passing?”
“They’re all dead. Geyem, Maige… Jona.”
“And your grandfather? You are his last relative.”
“I don’t know.” Cub admitted.
“Do you mind, a lonely passing?”
“No one wept for my father. Not truly.”
“Geyem did… and you.” Death pointed out. His voice so tender and caring it was hard to think he decided the passing of people good or evil.
“I didn’t.”
“Not physical tears no. But you did cry. I know that. Your father’s last thoughts before the passing was directed at you.”
Cub turned, the Stranger’s hard face returning. “What’s the meaning of all this? A fucking ‘here is your life’ scenario?” the temper flared for just a second.
But Death’s mask merely remained impassive. “No.” He said calmly. “I just want to see who you are and who you think you are.”
“I am a dead man. I came for vengeance.”
“A man cannot live solely for vengeance. It will tear himself apart. I’ve seen that in the unwritten stories of the past. So much rage in your family I wonder where it came from. Your forefather also used his rage to a great extent.”
“I thought Death was supposed to be Neutral.” Cub shook his head.
Death sat down next to him, his gnarled old staff in one hand. “I do not collect people’s soul, that is the earth, and I do not decide whose time it is to die, that is the earth. Your people worship a man long dead. A man forgotten in history as a real living man. But always remembered as a god. If there really is a god, it is earth. I am not Death but a mere servant of Earth.”
“Death is just an easy thing to call you.”
Death nodded, “I guess I am more a collector, the guide, than Death himself. I can have my opinions, just because I transcended life doesn’t mean I lost the feelings I once had.” Death added,
“Some of them have gone.” Cub sounded like he knew about that experience.
“Yes.” Death agreed. “The urge to love and be loved. The meaning of friends and family. You, yourself, are beyond that.”
“Yeah.” Cub picked up a rock and it suddenly changed color from the drab gray to completely white. Cub flung it, letting it fly in the air.
“But… No matter what you think, boy. While you may have lost a part of your soul. It does not you are irredeemable. Your humanity is out there. What happens when the vengeance crusade is done? No more killing?”
“Maybe one more.” Cub turned his blue eyes towards the mask which suddenly looked sad.
“A man of few words, Cub. But I know what you meant.” Death shook his head. “You have so much anger, hate and sadness. Were you ever happy?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You’ve sent a lot of people my way. Almost an army. Sometimes ten at a time. I think it’s a rare person who can do that. You held your own against the Seventh.”
“Killin’ I’ve always been good at.”
Death nodded an agreement. “And surviving. Most people would’ve died after six bullets in the back.”
“A pep talk from the Reaper.” Cub shook his head, a grin not unfitting spread across the usually serious face, but as quickly as it had appeared it disappeared.
“Not a pep talk. Sometimes I am… curious. So I when I see an opportunity to talk to an individual like you, I grab it. My curiosity never waned.”
“Do you know what’s beyond that gate you shepherd people through?”
Death shook his head, scratching his head. His mask had an expression of wonder about it, the green eyes behind it narrowed.
“No.” He admitted.
“You do not know what you serve? Or what where you send people?”
Death held a thoughtful pause before again admitting a resounding no. “There are specifics I do not know.” He shrugged. “I will probably never see, in fear that I wouldn’t return from it, I’ve never ventured into the gate. Maybe there is nothing, maybe there’s just light.”
“Or darkness.” Cub pointed out.
“Or Darkness.” Death agreed. “But I think not.”
“Maybe someday you will find out.”
“Maybe. Sometimes I wonder if what I have been given here is a gift or a curse.”
“You’re honest for a semi deity.”
“I have nothing to lose. I cannot be fired, if this is a curse.”
They sat for a while, letting the sun shift places upon the bright grey sky. It’s colorless rays still shone some light down on the earth giving it different shades, the inbetween was truly an apt moniker for this place. The feeling that this was earth was there somewhere, they could not see life, but they could see the trees shifting, the clouds changing into shapes, even bright stars twinkling from above, as night came to them. The problem was the drabness, the lack of color. How many years since Cub had appreciated color? Ten years.
“Do you miss them?” Death asked suddenly.
“Who?”
“Family, Geyem, the ranch hands like Jame or Reg, maybe even your father?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve lost your family what? Three times? Each time regaining it.”
“Until it was wiped out.”
“Yes. Until it was wiped out. Why did it take you ten years to do this?” Death got up leaning on his staff like a weak old man. “I mean after you had healed from your wounds you could have probably pursued him and gotten your revenge quicker.”
“I wasn’t good enough. Not fast enough, not hard enough.”
“Maybe.” Death shrugged. “So to find justice, you needed to lose your soul.”
“I guess so.”
“Why do you hide?” Death said, perking his head to the side, “Why do you feel a need for this rough, silent exterior. The image of a cold killer and criminal.”
“Why do you wear a mask?” Cub retorted sharply.
“Point taken, but why do you hide?”
“I’ve been this way for a decade now…”
“And now you don’t know any other way to be?” Death finished the sentence. “If the only thing you live for is the death of this general, who betrayed you. There is nothing for you soo, is there. You must find something to give you a purpose. An opportunity.”
“But revenge is still something I gotta do.”
“Yes.” Death nodded, “It is. Your ancestor once tried to save the world, did you know that? He failed in the end. Not because he lost the fight, he won actually. But he died as all men do and evil lived on.”
“I’m not trying to save the world.”
“Not yet.” Death corrected him in a low tone, almost a whisper.
Cub ignored the comment and took another long stare across the landscape.
“I was born in the cold mountains in the old country, Not that this place isn’t pretty, this continent, is very… diverse, but I do miss the heaven swept mountains, and the brisk breeze over the white sprinkled tops.”
“The mountains are green here.”
“Yes.” Death sighed, “The whole land is ripe for the taking. It has taken you 500 years to come this far, and you got a long road ahead.”
“Do you know the future?”
“Bits and bobs.”
“What have you seen?”
“That would be telling.” Death laid a gentle hand on Cub’s shoulders. “Come, it is time we parted, and let fate and Earth do with you what it wants.”
Death let them through the thick forest for several minutes, the grass, where Cub’s foot landed turning a clean green color like a magnificent painting but every time he lifted his foot, the color would disappear as quickly as it had come.
They stopped in the clearing where they had met, a portal humming by a rock formation, it was supposed to lead to a cave, instead it led to the afterlife. Death stood in front of it, his back bent slightly as he leaned on his staff.
“My curiosity has been sated. The choice of trying to live, or just give up is yours.”
“It would be too easy to just lie down and die.” Cub spat, the Stranger persona overcoming his face, attitude, his whole stance. He looked resplendent in the green army uniform, but grim as well, as something foreboding.
“Sometimes it’s good to have someone to talk to, boy.” The mask smiled. “Now, I can’t advise you which way you should go.” Death pointed between two gnarled trees much like the man’s own staff, the colors were pretty, like a rainbow swirling and changing colors all the time, but contrary to the other gate which was glowing and inviting. This one between the trees was foreboding and unknown.
“You know which one leads where.” Death said.
“I do.” Cub confirmed, his voice again this deep, controlled anger voice. Cub took one quick glance towards the light gate, it looked like liquid gold running down the sides of the stones. Then he saw the woman, her eyes dark, her skin so pale. Her ears and nose much like his own.
Death sensed something, “What do you see?”
Cub’s eyes twinkled with some kind of short respite in happiness. “My Mother. Just how I pictured her.”
“But you’re going back.” Death was not asking a question, he clutched his staff harder and perked his chin up.
“I am.” Cub nodded. “Life’s been a bitch to me, probably to you as well. Now I’m gonna make someone else’s life a bitch.”
“I see.” Death said sadly. “I feel, I might see many men come this way.”
“You might.” Cub took sure steps towards the dark gate between the rainbow trees. He stopped suddenly, mere inches from the entrance.
“They had no right.” He said determined.
“So long Stranger.” Death raised a hand.
“So long.” The Stranger said and turned, and with one sure step. He was gone.

Drama :o Edit.

Fri, 13 Jul 2007 01:22:30 GMT

(thanks to the always wonderful Dogma, there's more voice to the grandfather, wohoo where would I be without Dogma,Elle,Indi, magen and tambo? and that's in alphabetical order if you're wondering ;) )

“This is gonna hurt in the morning.” Duncan drummed his fingers on his thigh, feeling the faint pain of the real world from his burning tattoo. He felt hungry, which seemed odd to him being that was he dreaming. He was just waiting for his guest or was it the other way around, which meant the guy was a really bad host.
A chair materialized out of nothing, a fluffy comfortable chair, it seemed to Duncan. His suspicions were correct as he sat down, getting comfortable. He didn’t have to wait for long when another chair appeared, this time with someone already sitting in it. Well not just somebody, Duncan ‘clone.’
He was dressed in a dark tuxedo, looking like a demonic James Bond. He grinned at Duncan, running a soft hand through his Van Dyke.
Duncan frowned, took of his hat, but kept his sunglasses on, he was dressed the same, no matter where he went. It reminded him, he needed to go out to buy some more clothes, he was running out whole suits.
“So…” Duncan said, but stopped short when he realized he had nothing constructive to say. The man sitting across from him was just looking and smiling, but said, nothing, he sat still like he was very realistic stone.
“Is this a staring contest I’ve not been told about?” he finally said, trying to break the silence.
“Well, now that’s McMullen is dead. We can talk like men.” The man finally said, and nodded, “Good, good.” The emptiness made his strong burr echo off into the distance. “Always been a wee bit on the scrawny side, haven’t you?” He sighed, “But you will do, aye you will do.”
Duncan smacked his lips, “Got any cookies? Pringles? Anything snacky? I mean after all this is a dream, I bet I can eat a whole load and still not get fat.”
The Man did not seem humored.
“Ah, that famous O’Toole wit.” He shook his head, his voice sounded bitter and annoyed, “Goes back many generations I’m told. It annoys me, lad. Stop...”
“Hammer time!”
“BE QUIET!” the Man roared, half standing up in his chair, his eyes ablaze looking directly into Duncan’s own. He took a deep breath and then sat down. Smoothing out his hair and then resumed his smile. “Please Don’t interrupt while I am speaking.”
“Don’t we have a temper problem?” Duncan rolled his eyes. “I honestly think you’re like the crappiest imaginary friend I ever had. I preferred Doyle, but he wasn’t really imaginary he was just a leprechaun. Of course, my aunt couldn’t see him.”
“I AM not an imaginary friend.” The Man grunted, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. “I am your grandfather.”
That felt particularly felt like getting smacked around with a piano. Several times. Hard.
It wasn’t really a man he had expected to see, not in dreams, nor in real life. But there he said he was. The question was, why now, after all this time, all the weird dreams, was he showing himself now?
Duncan could’ve used him that one Christmas when he had been nine years old, and all he had gotten for a present was a glass bowl in his face. What boyfriend had that been? Had that been Nigel or Robby? Pah, who cared, they had all the same. He did remember how many stitches he had gotten.
Duncan didn’t need a grandfather, anymore. He bet the only reason the guy showed up now was because wanted something.
He shook his head, and leaned back eyeing the Man, his so-called grandfather. Duncan crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I do believe you owe me presents for birthdays, Christmas, for the last 26 years.” Duncan paused then snapped his fingers, “Oh! I always Colonel Slaughter action figure, with genocide action! It squirted blood and everything!”
“Careful now, don’t piss me off, or you might get burned.” The Man warned him, waving a finger.
“Guess I now know where I got the, er,” Duncan lifting his hat, to show his horns. He looked at the man across. “So what’s your name? Duncan right? My mom named me after you. I thought you were dead.”
“There’s dead, and there’s physically indisposed of.” His grandfather wavered, bobbing his back and forth. He blinked a few times and played with his van dyke again, “You impressed me with McMullen.”
A thought jolted into Duncan’s head. He didn’t turn over in his mind before blurting out, “It was a test.”
Well how nice of him to send him into danger. Sounded like the best grandfather ever!
“Aye, you took a beating, but kept going. He never saw what was coming eh? Hell, you even took care of a little pest problem for me. One I hadn’t expected.” He frowned, licking his lips before grinning widely again. “Humans in general are impatient. They always want more than they can carry.” He shook his head as if he was disappointed with something. “Now I need you to do something for me.”
Aha! Duncan had been right, it really sucked that his immediate family was either not acknowledging he was alive, and let her crappy boyfriends do the raising, or they were non existent until they suddenly found Duncan useful.
“Sorry, I already have a job.” Duncan said.
“What? With Von Richilieu?” His Grandfather laughed, a big deep hearty laugh, repeated again and again.
He disappeared right in front of Duncan, but the laugh came going, as the scene changed, the dark fog lifting from the place, leaving Duncan sitting in a corner of a medical room.
Richilieu was buttoning up a shirt, while a middle-aged doctor, half bald shook his head and looked worried.
“You got to take it easy, Alex.” He set down the chart and put his hands on his hips, try to look all serious. “Listen, while you might feel fine and all, your body soon won’t take anymore. At some point your body will start deteriorating, and you’ll probably not live any more than three months.”
“And if I stay out of field operations, relax, avoid the stress, how long will I have then?” the question was sharp one, and Duncan could tell Von Richilieu wasn’t pleased.
The doctor winced, “I don’t know, seven to ten months tops.”
“I won’t give up now, Matthew, not when I am so close to my goal.”
“Your goal?”
Von Richilieu pulled on his jacket and jumped down from the examining table and began to walk out the door, “A cure, Matthew.”
“But, Alex, there’s no cure.” The doctor shook his head; “Your body will shut down any minute if you pressure it like you do.”
“It’s a chance I have to take.” Von Richilieu turned, looking intently at the doctor. “You got another more immediate patient. I need him, Matthew so take good care of him.” Von Richilieu paused as if thinking about something the he pointed, “I want blood samples.”
“Blood samples?”
“Don’t ask questions, please Matthew, just do it.”
“Yes, sir.” The doctor nodded, but his face told Duncan, he still didn’t understand. Yet still when Von Richilieu left, he found a clean syringe, and walked out of the room as well, disappearing from the scene.
The black fog returned, as did Grandfather, smiling, leaning back in the chair. He had changed his clothes back t his simpler dark brown clothing caked with mud.
Duncan felt a slight prick on the joint of his left arm, a slight wooziness, though everything seemed so distant from himself, but he knew that someone in the real world was doing, something.
“He’s not a well man.” Duncan’s grandfather burred. “Dargat died five years ago. Now there was a man.” He smiled again and looked up. “Now, Dubhchadh will inform you about what I want you to do.”
“What you expect me to just dance at your tune?” Duncan snorted, “I already got a job, let your pointy eared friend do your dirty work.”
“Don’t, boy.” He growled back. “You will do this.”
Duncan almost wanted to laugh, though there was nothing about this he actually found funny. He was no damn pawn, at until recently non-existent family member, who kept interrupting in his dreams, especially when it was about him, supermodels, and a white sand beach.
He rolled his eyes, and took a deep breath and then let go,
“No wonder my mother didn’t want to talk to you.” Duncan said, “I mean, you sound like total swell guy, Annoying me constantly in my dreams, never really showing up, helping out, when I needed a helping hand. I’ve felt many lashes from damn belt, crying for someone to at least make it stop. But that’s ok, right, because you’re here now. Not when my Aunt’s numerous boyfriends beat the shit out of me. No that’s ok, I know this is your way of telling me, you want us to spend quality time together.” Duncan made air quotes. “And apparently by quality time you mean killing Wendigos. Excuse me while my first impression of you, Grandda, aint exactly peachy. Just leave me the fuck alone, because you sir, I might add, are a fucking asshole.”
“Don’t talk you to me like that!” His grandfather spat, standing up, his whole body seemed to grow, his eyes blazing once more with red flames.
“Oh yeah, you get props for leaving me alone for 26 years?” Duncan gave him thumbs up, “hells, you even get a complimentary cup, World’s worst grandfather. I was alone for the last 26 years, why the fuck do you think I need you now?” Duncan snapped back. His heart was hammer, his blood boiling through his entire body. It felt damn good.
“Don’t give me that sob shite, boy, it made you strong.” He said in a nicer tone, but his anger was barely contained. “I made you strong.”
“You made me jack and shit.” Duncan roared back standing up pointing his accusing finger at the giant before him. “You were never there! I had to fend for my-fuckin-self. I owe you nothing so piss off before I call a exorcist or something.” Duncan was beyond caring, he might as well turn into a big ass demon or something else, Duncan had something he wanted to get off his chest.
“I’ve said this before, this ends when I say it ends.”
Duncan shook his head, and narrowed his eyed trying to look intimidating, “Nah, it ends now. I’m waking up.” He raised a middle finger to his so-called grandfather and then put all his power into waking up, focusing on the faint burning pain on his back and slowly he felt himself surge back into the real world
It made him grin when he realized the last thing that dead beat asshole had seen was Duncan giving him the finger.

Staple gun

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 20:00:56 GMT

Even though Duncan couldn’t see that at the moment, he should still teach the damn hairy Cyclops a lesson.
”You cost me an eye…” Brakk said. Duncan felt himself being lifted up by Brakk clutching his shirt.
“And a part of your ear.” Duncan reminded him. He eyed the office desk, noticing, it seemed in pretty order. He noticed the staple gun lying on the desk, right in Duncan’s reach.
Brakk grunted and exhaled through his nose, the stench was unbearable, like stale junk food.
Having Brakk’s undivided attention, he grabbed the staple gun off the desk, and dangled smiling at Brakk.
“I’m going to grind your bones into flour, and make a pie out if you.”
“Oooh I think I saw that on Martha Stewart once.” Duncan raised his hand, pressing the staple gun against Brakk’s cheek and squeezed.
The gun made a satisfying clicking sound followed by a howl by Brakk.
His grip on Duncan lost; he clutched his cheek, giving Duncan a chance to slip away. Duncan still held the staple gun in his hand, and pressed it again Brakk’s left thigh this time, he squeezed again releasing another big howl from Brakk, before he slipped away, drawing his two Glocks while jumping through the hole in the wall.

Chandelier scene and Scooby Doos

Sat, 16 Jun 2007 14:50:36 GMT

Now Duncan had to go down and help Joanna and Eli, and guns in hands, literally, that’s just what he could do. Question was though, should Duncan go down the stairs sneak up behind them, or jump through the skylight, land on the chandelier let it crash to the floor, while he would roll away, draw his guns and kill the rest of the grendels.
Duncan chose the latter.
He took a few strides back to build up momentum, and ran toward the skylight, and jumped, he closed his eyes as he legs connected with the glass. He crashed through loudly, the glass smashing to bits about him.
He opened his eyes again, his feet closing in on the chandelier, and all of a sudden, he hoped he was heavy enough to break the chandelier wire keeping it hanging.
He landed, his Glocks holstered made his hands free and he grabbed the top of the chandelier and heard a loud snap, and a split second Duncan was falling again, screaming as the chandelier crashed down towards the floor, right below where Pox, the scarred grendel was looking him.
Poor guy though, after Duncan had shot him in the leg, he couldn’t move fast enough to actually escape the huge, golden glorified lamp with Duncan as a passenger. All Pox could do was trying to limp out of the way, which was a sight Duncan enjoyed very, very much.
He didn’t see the crash through, a second before the thing landed, he jumped, rolling on the floor and then jumping to an upright position while drawing his guns.
The sound of the crash was satisfying in it’s own right, Duncan had to admit.
He was ready to shoot someone, but as he stood there, a split second after the crash, there was a thick blanket of silence.
Dust encircled the still chandelier, now broken and twisted, though still golden, glinting in the sun now shining through the hole where there had once been glass.
Pox groaned from under the chandelier, moving ever so slightly.
“Sorry about that, Pox, when I landed, I was sure the wire could hold my weight. I guess I need to lose a few pounds.” Duncan smirked and took another look around. No one moved, three grendels over on the other side of the room, was just staring at him, their AK’s lowered.
They eyes looked down on Pox and then up on Duncan again and then down.
The AK’s clattered onto the floor and the grendels were gone, leaving their leader pinned under the giant probably old chandelier.
Something whined from behind Duncan and he turned and found Flazer in a fetal position sucking his thumb.
“My great-great-great grandfather brought that Chandelier from Holland when he migrated to America. It has been in my family for 400 years.” Flazer’s right eye twitched and he just kept staring at the broken heirloom.
“Er right. Yeah…” Duncan rocked back and forth before realizing his nose and head was quite empty. “Crap, I got forgot my sunglasses and hat.”
Moment Duncan returned, his hat on his head, and his round sunglasses on his nose. He nodded satisfied as he descended the stairs. Joanna had picked up one of the AK’s while Eli was trying to remove the chandelier from Pox.
“What the hell made you want to crash through a skylight onto a chandelier and then crash down?”
Duncan stopped on the stairs with three steps left and licked his lips, “Stairs were boring.” He replied and jumped the last three steps. He noticed a scrape on Joanna’s forehead, the blood already dried, but it seemed had gotten a nasty hit.
“Where did you get that?” He pointed at the scrape.
Joanna shrugged, bending down to pick up several clips for her newly acquired rifle.
“McMullen?” She looked around.
Duncan swore to himself, Joanna and Eli probably didn’t know about the helicopter or that Snell was dead, and Duncan was really crap at being the bearer of bad news and Joanna didn’t seem like a person who took bad news well. “Yeah, er, we met.”
“I saw Snell’s body.” Eli said from behind Duncan.
“I am sorry, we didn’t see him coming.” Duncan shrugged. They had been rather occupied by the helicopter crash.
“Neither did we.” Joanna sighed, and scratched her head.
“Did you see him?”
Joanna shook her head, “He was just a blur. Did you?”
Duncan nodded, “Flazer was right, the guy wasn’t human, not anymore.”
“A wendigo.” Alf’s voice said muffled as he fought to free himself from Duncan’s pocket. His little head stuck, Joanna and Eli turned to stare at Duncan who shrugged and looked down.
“Indian mythologic creature. A wendigo.”
“Why’s there a dragon in your pocket?” Joanna asked.
Duncan opened his mouth to say some but Alf was quicker. “Because I uhm fell asleep in the pocket.”
Duncan nodded at that.
“I am Alf, Librarian.” The small dragon hovered out of the pocket and gave the two agents a small bow mid-air. “And as I said, this McMullen, which Duncan here had a close encounter with, was a Wendigo.”
“Bullet didn’t seem to hurt it.” Duncan said, “if you know what it is, do you know how to kill it?”
Alf pondered on that for a bit, rubbing a hand across his scaled chin until he finally announced, “No.”
“No?” Duncan echoed.
“Yes, No.”
“Yes or no?”
“I just said no.”
“No you said, yes.”
“Yes I did. Yes to your question, no to that I don’t know how to kill it. I’ve never met one before today, only read about them.”
Duncan sneered for a quick moment before looking up at Joanna scowling at him so he kept his mouth shut.
“But as I wanted to say before you interrupted me, Duncan. I do know where we can find out where. There’s a book called Mike’s guide to creatures of Myth and Legend which I believe you have a copy of, in your bookstore.”
Well that was rather lucky turn of events. Duncan snapped his fingers. “Right so, we’ll do a Scooby Doo. I’ll get the book, while you two,” Duncan looked at Pox, “Get mister Hideous here to HQ and we’ll meet there.”
“Hold on, I’m in charge here. Not you, O’Toole. So trap it.”
Duncan narrowed his eyes and sighed, he was getting really tired of Joanna’s grouchiness, and Eli stoic anger directed towards. He had just saved their damn life. He raised brow, folding his arms, “Oh so what do you suggest we do, then?”
Joanna blinked twice, no reply.
“We’ll, uh, do a Scooby Doo.” She finally said and eyed Duncan.
“A Scooby Doo it is!” Duncan exclaimed triumphantly!

Mayne

Fri, 18 May 2007 16:49:21 GMT

The sea was calm today, gentle waves caressing the small boat, the wind chilly on the December morning, gray cloud looming overhead. McKay breathed out seeing smoke appear and disappear in front of his eyes. He sighed and looked at the time.
Two hours he had sat in the gentle rocking boat hoping for some fish he could surprise Maude with. He grumbled something and went into his pocket fumbling for a smoke.
He set down the fishing rod, and put a cigarette in his mouth before looking for matches. He was cold, miserable, hungry and still poor.
The match flared and gently he let the flame touch the end of the smoke and inhaled the tobacco.
Suddenly something big bumped into his boat, he turned, smoke in his mouth huffing and puffing. Carefully he leaned over the side, staring down at a floating body, bumping into the boat again and again.
“Jesus Christ.” McKay mumbled almost dropping his smoke. He reached down grapping the body by it’s dark shirt and used all his strength dragging the heavy, wet and cold body out of the water.
He let him drop into the bottom of the boat, and McKay took another drag of his cigarette before throwing it away. This took more than just a fag, this took a nice big glass of Guinness.
The man was gaunt, pale, dark thinning hair plastered all onto his face. To the side of his head was a weird scar, a dent the size of a penny.
McKay leaned down and realized what kind of clothes the man was wearing. He had seen them, over in Germany ten years ago, a long time ago if someone asked McKay. He was looking down at a damn nazi kraut no less. McKay was an expert on the whole medals which were plentiful on the man’s chest, nor did McKay recognize the rank. He had been too busy just shooting them dead over there.
Question was, why the hell was this man dressed as a decorated Nazi officer when the war had been over for a decade.
He began to stir, groaning weakly while turning slowly. McKay jumped back, apprehensive to get too close to the man. Still he felt it necessary to ask.
“Are you alright?”
The man began to move more surely and strongly, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up staring at McKay with milky white eyes, giving off a blank look. The way he moved, the sounds he made, was inhuman,
Instantly, McKay regretted dragging the man onto his boat, as he slowly got on his feet, keeping the balance perfectly on the rocking boat. McKay wanted to run, but he knew he had nowhere to run too.
McKay screamed. But only the elusive fish and soaring birds heard it.

Mist formed in the late afternoon, but it did not stop Jimmy from going to the beach, collecting his small sea rock. He had already a beautiful sheen black one, which was now snugly placed in his right side pocket.
He looked out into the still mist, hearing the water, ever changing slowly lap up against the beach.
And there, far out, Jimmy swore he saw something moving. He stopped letting go of the rock in his hand, his eyes now intent on the small incoming boat slowly nearing the beach. It was not everyday a boat turned up from the sea.
Jimmy waited, until the boat was close enough for him to grab and not get wet, before he took a hold if the tied up rope at the front of the small boat. He dragged safer into land, his curiosity over taking him.
Heavily panting he wiped his head, and then looked around the boat. Old, small for two maybe three men, brown, unpainted, where had it come from and would there be treasures in it?
He peeked over the railing into the boat, and fell backwards into shock. The boat was bloodied, a man lay at the bottom of the boat, his stomach ripped up, his intestines spilling out. Jimmy gagged but before doing anything else, he ran, wanting to get away, finding someone who could help him
Constable Leary, his Dad, or mother. Anyone.
Salty tears welled at the edges of his eyes. The man’s dead look, staring into the sky haunting him still. No matter how far he ran, the image stayed.

Shh don't tell anyone.

Tue, 01 May 2007 00:51:53 GMT

(Almost cried when I wrote this.)

She touched a soft hand on his wet cheek, the light of the prison of the Tuatha De danaan giving her an ethereal projection. She smiled sadly, letting him know she wanted this as less as he did.
But it was to be; her eyes avoided his crying eyes, his crimson demonic turning soft and broken.
But then at least they looked deeply into them and smiled.
There were four lovers saying goodbye, he knew that know, Emer and CúChulainn, him and Nora.
None could fight back tears. This was their goodbye, Duncan leaned closer, his lips touching Nora’s his hands trembling. For him it was too short a time.
“I have to do it now, Duncan.” She smiled as best she could. Her own eyes watering.
“I know.” His voice was broken. “I don’t how I will live without you.”
“You did before, you will again. I love you.”
Simple words that wanted Duncan to break down. Everyone he loved was being ripped from his too soon. Muldoon, his parents, Nora.
She took a step backwards, their hands locked, then another and continued to walk her hand holding firmly in his own, and then soon their arms was outstretched and there was no more.
“You saved me once, remember?” Emer said.
“I remember.” CúChulainn replied.
“Let me save you this time.” She let go and Duncan felt something lost inside him. Broken never to be repaired. He looked as her body turned disappearing into the light and like when you turn off a light switch, the portal disappeared, leaving Duncan in the darkness, wishing for the first time he would be as blind in the dark as normal men.

HAHA back to writing, ya useless dog!

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 22:31:08 GMT

just trying something, I just saw the Director's cut of Kingdom of Heaven, damn good.

anyhoo I tried putting some more mood into my scenes, I think I failed, maybe it's just not my style:

“Take me oh elves of the land to see your king of old, make me an immortal, let me ignore the cold. The sun I want to see rise for another, as I now know us humans waste our day away.” The lyrics were followed by a dainty whistled tune amidst the verses. Apparently the birds did not like it for they scattered, hiding amidst the nearby green trees standing perfectly still except for the rustling leaves. Sun set high, the sky blue. A little wee cloud rolling past the scenery, on the green hilltop the rotten bodies smelled dreadful.
Bronn stopped by the start of the hill, a colorful shaped flitted past him on it’s tiny wings. A butterfly, it stopped too, changing it’s direction going past Bronn a round and then flew away.
“Aye.” The young boy agreed, “’Tis not a place one such as you.” He looked down and frowned.
Bodies lay everywhere, the grass splotched in big areas with blood.
There were bodies to Bronn’s left and to his right, but right by his booted feet was a severed hand, and a sword clutched in it’s still firm grip. He packed away the knife he had carried for weeks now and picked up the hand. He scowled as he did so, blood dripping from bloody stump.
He bit his lower lip as he removed the sword, long sword it was, hefting it in his own hand trying to test it’s balance. This was not a Gaul sword, but an Achillean one. It was plain, but the balance was perfect even in Bronn’s puny arms. He scratched the back of his head and searched the battle ground for a body with a missing hand and a scabbard to spare. The sword would do. He needed a sword, and here he was, carrying what people said was the best sword one could find. An Achillean one.
He found a scabbard that fit nice, after rummaging through several dead bodies, nodding pleased with himself he decided it was time to pass through. The stench of rot was sticking to him, and he did not want to have smell in the evening as he took his evening meal. He looked up to the sun seeing it still high in the heavens and nodded. He had best moving. They would come and soon rather than later.
He turned facing towards the hill he planned to ascend and fell backwards. Covered in a shade of a giant elm tree stood an armored man, his horsehair helmet and broad glistening plate armor made a striking bold and dangerous figure. The horse neighed, as if it sensed the drama of the situation and then slowly descened, the man on the horse riding with his back straight, his golden armor glinting in the sunlight his Achillean horsehair helmet shadowing his eyes.
Now if someone had asked Bronn’s father he would’ve said: “Pah, old horsehair helmets are for the Achilleans, now I prefer the one’s with horns, better when doin’ the headbuttin’ thing.”
But he would have had to admit, in armor such as this, the soldier was terrifying in a majestic way. He stopped in front of Bronn, looming above him, before with one stroke threw his purple cape to the side and dismounted the horse.
It was broad, big, and very very nasty up close. Bronn took a step back.
“Kanaf!” The tone was deep, throaty.
Bronn shrugged, he didn’t understand what the hells he was saying.
The soldier reached out, motioning for Bronn to come closer, but Bronn noticed that the soldier was holding his sword with his left hand, so it would only take him a split second to pull it out.
Bronn took another step back, remembering his father’s words, ‘back up, make distance, decide your actions. Draw your sword.’ Well usually with his father Bronn there was usually only one action which was the right one.
Bronn reached for the leather hilt of his own, newly acquired, sword and drew it, listening to what seemed like ages, to the hard scraping of blade against wood. He took his battle position.
He was going to Troy and no one was going to stop him.

I am a sucker.

Mon, 16 Apr 2007 20:24:26 GMT

Brace yourselves here comes a little story from my personal life.
I was at work at a bar called Palermo, where I am the slave who takes care of glass and dishwashing. At this place I've found great and interesting people. It's hard work but I love it.
Anyhoo here goes the story, saturday rumour had it that along with a few other bars had employees from Palermo had planned to drink after work in a nearby park.
when first I thought, "Sounds fun, but I got a 45 minute train ride home, at six in the morning." so I remained apprehensive about going, though I never expressed it so, luckily enough. (I'll get to that point later.)
Anyhoo, there's a sweet hot girl who works in the wardrobe at Palermo. I fancy her. dark lucious hair and pretty blue eyes and a personality to die for.
Problems apparently she's got a boyfriend. Here comes the tale of a sucker,
Imagine a guy, just starting school and meets a girls, a very sweet girl, who goes in the same class, let's assume he was in love with her the three years they went to school together before finally getting over her. Alrighty let's assume he was still whipped and if said girl asked, guy would jump. the guy was a recruit and the girl, a sweet book sarge with boobs. the girl had a boyfriend, and nothing ever happened.
Let's assume that guy was me. I thought I had grown older AND wiser. Turns out I'm not so sure. why, let's come back to Hot wardrobe girl. HWG, as she shall be called.
Been a few weeks since I saw HWG, and if I remember correctly I took that particular shift Saturday to see her. (Don't ask.)
So she arrives at work, I am already there. and when I got the time I strike up conversations with her and the other wardrobe girl. and we talk about this after party after thingie. When I ask her if she's going. Seems she is, she asks me if I am.
Now my mouth is saying "Dunno, I got a long way home you know?" (She does, she's from the same town, Farum, as me.)
But my mind is saying; "Oh yes, yes you're going."
I did, I had a pleasent time even. I was talking about going home around 8, she was considered the same thing, we walked together very little the same way before she jumped on her bike and rode away and put on some AC/DC to entertain me the long way home.
Moral of the story, I'm still a recruit, and another book sarge has come to replace the old one.
Hudson, Sucker for women, and not necessarily Brazillian supermodels.
Shite.

Man-eating chickens, vegetarian lions and giraffe eating cows and of course Alf.

Wed, 11 Apr 2007 01:13:46 GMT

as I am editting, I trying to go for the more less is more approach, let the lines speak for themselves, I guess.
What's funny is, when I wrote semtex, Word wanted to change it to Semen.

GO:

He began hacking again, but nothing. Not one scratch “Go n-ithe an cat thú, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!” Duncan swore out loud shaking his left fist at the damn invincible crate.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” the voice asked.
“Swearing.” He thwacked the crate again as hard as he could.
“Well that’ll take too much time.” the voice said.
“You’re telling me that NOW.” Duncan sighed and rolled his eyes. He put the crowbar back in the pocket and looked at the crate. “Any bright ideas?”
“Well I’m just saying.”
“Yeah well, I guess we could always boom it.” Duncan realized, he had already been very noisy to no avail. Explosives were though loud, quick and pretty damn simple. Now he didn’t have any semtex, but he did have a few grenades somewhere.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” the voice stammered slightly.
“So is eating fugu.” Duncan pointed out.
“Well can’t we do something else?”
“I’m open for suggestions.”
There was a silence, Duncan waited tapping his feet, the ugly guy would soon return.
“Blowing it to bits it is!” he finally said rubbing his hands together. He realized it had been ages since he actually had blown something up. He took out a grenade and then moved the crates closer together pressuring the grenade in between the two crates. It was heavy work, but he did it.
“This isn’t extremely dangerous is it?”
Duncan shrugged, but then realized that the voice couldn’t see. “Don’t worry I did this almost every day.”
“What are you, a crazy bomber?”
Duncan frowned, “No. A US Marine.”
“Alright get back!” he yelled to the guy inside the crate and pulled the pin from the grenade. He ran ducking behind the table, overturning it, when the grenade exploded with a satisfying boom. It sent small splinters from the crate every where. Dust and debris mixed together in one giant wafting smoke.
Duncan coughed, as he inhaled the dust, while nearing the little cloud.
“Hello, you alright?” he yelled.
“Yes… yes amazingly I’m perfectly fine, and I’m free thank you!” the voice replied,
Out of the smoke came a small thing on two legs, covered in white feathers with a familiar clucking sound and nice yellow break. It was a chicken.
Duncan raised a brow and let his mouth hang.
“What the?!” That wasn’t the guy who spoke was it?
“Hello? I’m behind you.” the voice said.
Oh that made more sense, Duncan turned, but kept his confused expression, opening his mouth slightly eying the small creature in front of him. It was flying, it’s small wing bashing in the air, keeping it leveled with Duncan’s head.
It was the size of a gecko, with beautiful purple shiny scales. Big black eyes blinking as they stared back at Duncan.
It was furrowing it’s brow, he realized.
“Ah so you are my savior? Certainly not what I expected… your kind usually doesn’t save people.” the flying lizard said and cleared it’s throat.
Duncan shook his head, and began to scowl. “What do you mean my kind? Are the Irish not good enough for you?” he asked angrily, wagging an accusing finger.
“My apologies I just meant that…”
“What the hell are you? Some kind of rare flying lizard?” Duncan interrupted. He made small wavy wings with his hands.
“Actually, I’m a dragon.”
“I thought Dragons were huge.”
“Some are.” The Lizard, er Dragon said with a nod. “My kind are not.”
“Right.” Duncan nodded, and look to the ground. Behind him, he could hear the chicken clucking loudly. “You sure your not just some kind of lizard?” Duncan eyed the thing again.
“Quite sure.”
“So dragons eat men right?” the dragon that Duncan had met, had at least.
“Some dragons do. I’m a vegetarian and have been for the last 200 years.”
“So you didn’t eat that harbor worker, a couple of nights ago?”
“No, I just arrived” the dragon pointed out.
“Right…” Duncan simply said nodding. Well that was a relief.
“But that chicken…” the dragon pointed.
“What about it?” Duncan asked, what could possibly be wrong with that chicken? They were pretty damn tasty with some seasoning and some BBQ sauce.
“I wouldn’t go near it, I heard that guy talk about it. Threatened to feed me to it. It eats people.”
Duncan smacked himself on the forehead and rumbled a disgruntled sound, "So I have a talking lizard and a man eating chicken, oh what a great day I'm having!"
“Dragon” it corrected him.
Man-eating damn chicken and a damn pygmy dragon.
“Dragon, right.” Duncan nodded. An odd silence started, with Duncan just standing there staring at the small dragon waving it’s wings.
“Excuse me?” the dragon asked.
“Yes?” Duncan sighed. He had noticed the chicken was standing almost beside him now, about five feet away clucking at something on the ground.
“What are you going to do with the chicken?”
Duncan rolled his eyes into the back his head and drew one of his guns. The small dragon twitched covering it’s face with it’s hands. Duncan turned around and aimed at the chicken and pulling the trigger once.
“Buaaack!” the chicken cried out, Feathers and drops of blood flew everywhere. The chicken dropped dead, it’s head blown clean off. Duncan turned his attention back to the dragon, which looked like he was trying to smile.
“Satisfied?” Duncan holstered his gun.

For Indi

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 17:53:37 GMT

I don't know what or why so don't ask :D ;) :

I awaken from slumber, the rumbling of the being I am sitting in beginning to become more and more frequent. The whole thing shakes, a coffee cup in the seat across from mine drops to the floor.
We’re crashing, and I know I am dead.
It aint the first time, I crash, last time was forty years ago, in a helicopter. I was manning the M60 when a tnak blasts our tail. At that moment I know I am fucked beyond compare. When I awoke, I was 2 feet away from Smitty, the co-pilot’s legs, blood flooding out of it, a bone painting crimson sticking out. I can’t see the rest of Smitty, anywhere. It’s quiet though, everywhere it’s quiet. A cool humid breeze in the boiling Vietnam jungle.
I am alone, but I am unscathed, armed to the teeth and pissed off. No one wants to fuck with a Marine who’s pissed off.
This time it’s different, no war, nothing I was just visiting my eldest daughter and son-in-law in Frisco, I am old, walk with a cane, failing eyesight, but not ready to die.
It’s strange, I had my eyes closed for two minutes, and the cabin, the whole damn thing was filled with people. Now. They’re all gone. Disappeared, and I am alone.
I look out the window and see a cornfield come closer and closer. I am dead, in two seconds I am dead.
The plane hits the ground and I black out.

Casino Royale was released on DVD today.

Tue, 27 Mar 2007 11:47:11 GMT

“I can make this work can’t I? Being an Irish James Bond.”
“Working for the American government.” Alf pointed out.
“Well yeah, but still. Being all suave and drinking and then shooting up megalomaniac villains.”
Alf licked his lips and frowned, “well you got the drinking down to a pat.”
“You sayin’ I’m not suave enough?” Duncan raised a brow, trying to straighten his back and stand straight.
“Duncan, you sir are as suave as a elephant on ice.”
Duncan lost all hope, he oughta strangle that little. “Damn pygmy lizard.” Duncan muttered.
“Demonic drunk.” Alf retorted and then flew off to correct more books on the shelf.
Duncan was hungry and he had a craving for a good burger. He was still about that suave thing though. He was a ladies man, he was! Seriously. He was. Well if you discounted the dragon and Bath incident. His last three girlfriends… and maybe, just maybe that fling he had going with the banshee in Ireland.

For Elle part 2

Mon, 19 Mar 2007 23:52:49 GMT

There are times I question my own humanity. I don’t fear going to hell or some kind of purgatory, no, fuck that. I don’t know what I fear really, but it’s deeply rooted to the person I am.
Hell maybe it all comes down to I don’t know who I am. People have told me what to do since I was eleven when some big mouthed shaded revolutionary with a The Cure t-shirt on thrusted an AK47 into my hand. To this day I hate the distinct sound of that rifle. Everytime I hear it, I die a little inside and I can’t close my eyes, because then I see the poor villagers I’ve slaughtered.
Heh, you would think that working for the SAS or MI6 would be better, it’s not. I am the same slaughterer, the same butcher. I am just older.
But then, I might be a butcher, I still feel that fear and I feel it now. Clenching right down in my bowels up through my torso clenching around my chest, like the hand of God choking me slowly to death.
Her damn silver eyes is staring at me tears streaming down her cheek. Silenced USP in my hand. One bullet left. the other rivals dead. One’s leg is still twitching. Though the shot through his eye killed him instantly.
I feel my finger around the trigger, it burns oddly, that never happened before. Shoot damn you, Shoot!
I can’t fucking do this shit, I can’t do it anymore. I hear my gun, the faithful side arm I’ve used the past five years clatter to the ground and then I hear my own raspy voice, “Run.”
She does so without hesitating, and I stand there alone, in the darkness, the feeling of being a monster wash over me and then, I let go.
That’s when I realize, monsters can cry too.