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15 September 2016 @ 01:30 pm

The feeling of sorrow permeated throughout the room. It was as if it was a lingering whirl of smoke that threatened to clench your throat and stop you from breathing. One person had stopped breathing, resting with a slight curl of his lips into a peaceful grin. His gnarled scarred hands were gently locked together resting on his stomach. His eyes were closed and his fading white hair had been combed back. His wrinkled face that belied many years of hardship had adopted a pale white color of the dead.

Their father, Clayton Matthews, was gone.

He had survived two wars, his wife and a two bouts of cancer until finally, the ravages of time had taken its due.

Three black dressed shapes huddled around the black casket upon which would be Clayton Matthews resting place. One sitting in a chair hunched over hiding tears and the red tired eyes from whilst sobbing quietly. Another sat looking solemnly at the body, that had been once been their father, absorbing the silence whilst trying to take a breath of acceptance he so desperately needed. The final child, though all were now adults, was on the phone talking to the priest about the coming service happening later that day. They would be able to put their father to rest, next to their mother.

Clayton Matthews had died three days prior, and already now the children knew they would miss his patience and sage but rough military-tinged advice that had defined their upbringing. One could easily wonder where life would take them, how they would survive without the guidance of their parents.

There will be no certainty in the lives of the children of Clayton Matthews, except that they one day will also lie lifeless, hopefully at peace surrounded by their loved ones. But what of their lives now? What will the legacy of Clayton Matthews be in the physical manifestation of his children?

The Eldest

As a renowned psychologist, the eldest knew the emotional implications of their loss. He earned well: He drank expensive wines, ate at expensive experimental restaurants drove expensive cars, at this point the newest Aston Martin. It was all due to his success as a psychologist that catered toward the richer clientele. The kind of clientele that drowned their diamond studded problems in 12-year-old whiskey and prescribed medicine. Little did anyone know that he yearned for more. He had never married. Certainly, he had had several serious relationships in his fifty years, and even one son that he did not know existed. There was an emptiness to the eldest one's life, a significant purpose he believed that could be filled by the husband of one of his clients. He had never considered the same-sex as attractive until he had met Bill. The eldest knew the moral damnation of being romantically involved with patient's husband, but above all that continuous emptiness was being filled by a love he had never known so deeply before. The eldest was torn between the strict moral code infused by his own father and his feelings for the man.

Some days he smiled, overjoyed with the feeling of being in love and in others he despaired wondering what his deceased father would say and what advice he would give him. Yet... all the doubts and questions the eldest had would fall into the ether. They were never to be answered except by himself.

The Eldest was lost.

The Middle Child

The creative middle-child had always been rambunctious and filled with quippy one-liners. He now used those talents as a staff writer on a popular long-running sitcom on a network channel. Always one filled with too much emotion he was the one who sat hunched over crying at the sight of his dead father. That emotion was what drew people to him, but the emotional extremes he could elicit could also put him into a lot of trouble.

Little did his siblings know that he had been fired not four days ago from his position as a staff writer. The problem it seemed had come about when two years prior the best friend and a former co-worker Ron had taken credit for a collaborative effort on a pilot. The pilot had been sold to a prestigious cable channel received rave reviews and an Emmy. The middle-child had been put out into the cold. He was stuck in the same job, feeling as if he was writing the same stupid jokes for the same stupid reason.

As fate would have it, the show was changing filming locations using the adjacent studio where the middle-child was working. Ron had driven in with expensive gold-embossed shades in his shiny new Ferrari with a demeaning and mocking attitude when the middle-child had confronted him in the parking lot. The situation had escalated so drastically that when studio-security had arrived at the scene; the middle-child threatened to beat the shit out of his former best-friend with a plywood board.

His boss had fired him, in exchange for Ron not pressing any charges for assault. Though Ron had been the only one to actually physically hit the middle child.

With a third child on the way, the middle child was in a precarious economic situation. Too proud to ask his more successful siblings for help on that front he worked hard on polishing a script he had written years ago in hopes that it would be his breakthrough.

All his hopes and dreams and the security of his family lay completely in the hands of this script and prior to his father's death, he had focused so intently on it that he did not see the failing marriage to his pregnant wife.

If his father had been alive, he would have set him straight, soft but brusque advice would have taken the edge of that blade of fear sticking into the back of the middle-child. He would have awoken out of the foggy stupor, that was his intense focus on that manuscript.

He was teetering on the edge of total collapse. Too proud to ask help from his siblings. The only savior the middle-child had was the gnarled man resting in the coffin. Perhaps the manuscript would be a masterpiece. Perhaps, the middle child would find even greater success than his former best friend. Perhaps he would salvage his family life. Perhaps.

The Youngest

The oft-serious and focused youngest child was on the phone, as always with her eye for detail she steered the funeral arrangements clear of any unforeseen events. She had done so for their mother's funeral and now she was the one leading the arrangements of their father's.

The youngest child was career focused, a fast-talking business woman with a ruthless streak that had served her well in her years in New York. She never came home as often as the other two, always too busy to see her family and only now realizing it was too late to see her father for the last time.

It had brought a nagging feeling pricking consistently with an echoing question: Was she living as she wanted? She recognized that at times she felt lonely, out-of-place amidst a sea of cocaine, Quaalude, and alcohol. What had once excited her about the cutthroat tone of the corporate world now left her cold and empty. An emptiness she tried to hide with copious amounts of drugs but instead of filling her emptiness it merely pushed it away and every time she was not stoned or drunk was a time when it came back harder and more terrifying than the last. She was losing her spark and drive. The superiors had noticed and she knew it as well. She knew who she could have asked help from. The one man who could have helped her out the sinking ship of her life before she drowned in her own self-destructive tendencies. But he was dead, she missed a man she hadn't spoken to in a year, she had lost her saving grace, her hero to help her to get away from it all. Now there was only herself, and perhaps she was strong enough to conquer her adversity and feeling of emptiness. Perhaps she could find strength in the remaining members of her family. She could live well seven lifetimes over, so money would never be a problem. But lost people can only find their way with a light and to the youngest child, she felt that light had gone. It was extinguished before she had realized her need for it. For all her bluster and self-assured personality she was slowly drowning in the void of her own mind.

28 April 2010 @ 04:03 pm

Jack was pissed, tapping her high heels constantly into the floor of the elevator as the people around her began to cling more and more to the walls. She could hit someone, but not them, this was a specific someone. That fat little smug cigar chompin' bastard to Ernie Bauer.

“I could throttle him!” she made the choking motion with her two hands making a little balding bespectacled man twitch from her loud voice.

“Not you.” she tried to smile sweetly, but it merely seemed to make the man cower in fear some more.

“O-o-kay.” he wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief and turned around trying to not to catch the eye contact of the Half-Breed Rael again. Jack was used to it, it's not like she couldn't understand them, pissed off 6'3 women in high heels could look pretty dangerous she reckoned. Too bad it usually did not faze Ernie Bauer as much as it did the poor people sharing an elevator with her right now. Well there wasn't a lot she could do about it now.

The elevator finally opened on the right floor. Jack stormed out, the people sharing the elevator with her jumping to the side as she stepped out into the bullpen of Caulder Times.

She could almost hear the sigh of relief from the elevator as the doors closed again separating them from the angry woman now staring out across the chaos that was the offices of Caulder Times.

She scanned the smoke filled room, reporters with pencils resting behind their ears, cigarettes hanging limply from their mouth, paper flew everywhere, people walked with people or discussed heated in a constant noise of people shouting and the dings of the type writers that was spread across the bullpen.

“Coffee?” a hand dangled a cup of black coffee on front of Jack's face. She turned her head scowling into the handsome smiling face of RJ Shaw, star-reporter of The Caulder Times. He calmly sipped his own cup and raised his eyebrows.

She took it, “I don't have the time, RJ.”

“Ernie probably saw you coming and locked himself in his office.”

“Cowering little rat.”
“Really? Can you blame him? An angry Half-Rael shouting at him, and that could probably break him in two like a bread stick.” RJ Clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“You're not scared of me.”

He chuckled, and shook his head. “I've known you since you were that-” he lowered his hand to his stomach, “-tall and had pig tails.”

Also he had been a Marine Captain serving with her older brother Sam during the war, those guys had seen some shit way worse than angry Jacqueline Kirby.

“Uh huh, cute, RJ.”she put one hand on her hips, the other still holding her coffee, “Don't you have some huge story to write?”

“Nah, City Hall corruption scandal can wait a bit.” He set down his coffee on his desk nearby grabbing his jacket from his chair, “I am thinking we need something stronger than coffee.”

“I am thinking I need to go in and yell at Ernie. Maybe slap him around a bit.”

RJ came closer, taking a hold of Jack's left arm pulling her gently towards the elevator. He hadn't lost his well trained Marine physique since the Marine days, and there had always been something about his sand colored hair and easy smile Jack couldn't say no to.

“And I don't think I want you to lose your job. Come on, let's get a drink.”

“Dammit, RJ, he made me write an article about a huge pumpkin! While everyone else is running around writing about City hall scandals, and high profile murders, I write about giant pumpkins.”

“Well, there was also that guy who had a dog that could talk.” he shrugged.

Jack sighed, bottling up her anger directed at Ernie, she ran a hand through her long hair and looked at RJ, “I've been here two years, RJ. I want stories with more meat.”

“It's not going to help to shout at your boss, Jack.”
Well, RJ had a good point, but if she wasn't ever gonna get out of those damn stories and get something with real meat on it, she might as well lose her job, besides, “It might not help, but it's gonna feel good.”

RJ hadn't let go of Jack's arm and now gently dragged her toward the elevator again, “alcohol first, it'll make you think clearer.”

“On you?” She blinked, her free hand pinching her earlobe as it usually did when she had to think, damn that had always been a horrible tell for her and her brother when they tried their hand at poker.

He nodded, “On me. He had her and she hated to admit it, he was already pressing the call elevator button.

Jack let go, exhaling and almost crumbled to the ground, “Fine.” She groaned, “but don't stop me later.”

“Not sure about that, your brother might kill me if you lost your job.”

the door to the elevator opened with a ding, RJ led Jack inside as if he didn't quite trust her.

“Nah, he wouldn't do that.”

“Why not? He's killed people for less...”

The doors closed.



The kick sent him flying back into the wall, making a nice sized dent in it. Sam spat blood out onto the rug and cracked his knuckles. The attacker he had kicked into the wall was unconscious, and alone for that matter, his partner was dead on the floor, Sam had broken the elf's neck easily. Regular roughhouse thugs, and they usually talked easily.

He picked up his old Marine revolver from the floor and checked the ammo before he went to the kitchen and filled a cup with water. He drank the first portion, splashed himself with cold water and stole a glance over the mess of his hotel room. His bed had been shot to hell, a sink had been broken in the toilet, as well as the door of course. Damn, that bill was going to be huge now. He scratched his five'o'clock shadow and walked back to the still unconscious thug, splashing the water into the guy's face.

The thug coughed and shook his head before groaning loudly, he blinked he eyes falling upon his dead partner on the floor. “Holy shit!”

Sam slapped him, “Focus.” he tapped the thug lightly on the thigh with the revolver. “Now, there are easy ways, and there are not so easy ways. Answer my questions and don't lie, that's the easy way. The not so easy way is a little more vague. Who sent you? Gardner?”

“What? No!” the thug shook his head, before wiping the blood with his nose. He really didn't look like much, middle height, middle weight build, dirty looking with messy hair and a few missing teeth and the smell of whiskey on his breath.

They never really had a chance against Sam, but somehow that did not seem like it had been the point.

“Who hired you?”

“A man, I really didn't see a lot of him, he was hidden in the shadows.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and pinched his left earlobe, “I don't really feel the love here, like you're not telling the whole truth.” He pressed the barrel in the kneecap of the thug, “Do I really need to explain what the not so nice version of this conversation is.” Sam cocked the revolver, “Lookit mate, I am not really in a great mood, you came in in the middle of the night shot up my room and my patience is already wearing thin.”

“You won't believe me!” The thug's eyes went wild, shaking his head as he tried to press himself deeper into the dent in the wall.

“Try me.” Sam perked his head to the side.


He didn't even have to say anything, just lower his eyes a tad and be silent looking at the scared thug for a few intense seconds. Sam swore he could smell piss.

“Behen-Sidhe.” he blurted it out quickly, blinking as he himself did not believe it. “He was Behen-Sidhe.”

Sam bit his lower lip, resisting the urge to pinch his damn earlobe again and kept quiet.

“Alot of you Rael are scary motherfuckers, but a Behen-sidhe shit man.”

Half-Rael really, of course he was the one who had seemed to inherit most from that side of the family, his little sister had been luckier, more easily passing as a regular Alvan citizen than him through their childhood.

Behen-Sidhe though...

“I suggest you run then.” Sam pocketed the revolver and turned his back on the thug.

That word, that name screaming inside his head, Behen-Sidhe. Their mom had told them boogey man stories about them. Creatures originally created from the shadows of a defeated Elven army, and how they drank the blood of children that misbehaved. Bullshit most of it, but the bastards were real, that much he knew. Isolated on an island east from Kathria, all of them elite assassin, only way to see a Behen-Sidhe was when you were dying. They had prodded him, tested his defenses, He grabbed hold of his revolver again, but for some strange reason it did not make him feel anymore safe. He had to move fast now, there were no police coming to the part of Riapoke where he lived, and even if there were the bastards were too corrupt. Hell it was like that all over the Caddoll Archipelago. Out there, amidst the hundreds of thousand of island you took care of yourself.

“Too much thinking, Sam, too little doing.” he had people to call, things to arrange.








28 April 2010 @ 01:37 am


There was an eerie silence to the whole place, her shoes clicking loudly on the floor as she crossed the different bookshelves, she turned a right, touching the dusty old tomes lightly with her fingers feeling the ghost of Morgan here in some strange way. She could smell her brother, almost see his finger prints on some of the books and then she stopped, turned to face one specific book.

A Walk to a Farewell by Emerson Viehld, her favorite, it was a first edition too, used, creased in it's hardcover edition. She cradled it carefully like a baby, worried to let it drop to the ground, sensing her brother's prints all over the book. She closed her eyes.

Flashes of Morgan, his clothes torn, bleeding from a gash in his forehead and sweating profusely as he ran down the hallways of the Library looking from side to side. She could sense his fears, and his regret.

“Sorry, Jack.” it was a little whisper but there it was.

She stumbled backwards, almost crashing into the other bookshelf as she came too, her head felt heavy but it was easy to shake off and then find a drink soon-ish. She still held the book tightly and she tapped it just to see if it was real. She smiled slightly as she looked up into the eyes of a giant at the end of the aisle scowling in her direction. He was huge with a gruff expression and arms that looked like it could rip her to shreds. She could just about see the hint of his pointed ears underneath his dark blue Sixpence hat as he looked in her direction his black eyes making Jack's heart jump just a bit.

“Other way then.” She turned around, feeling a sudden need to find a public place, hoping that if that guy wanted something from her, he wouldn't dare do it in a public forum, but then again, the guy was huge even for a Rael.

She clutched the book tighter walking past the few examples of people amidst the labyrinthine aisles of the library, hearing her own footsteps followed in succession by huge booted feet seemingly following right after her.

She turned a left, and then a right, having no idea on where exactly she was going, just felt a need to get away from the looming threat of the footsteps. She stopped suddenly feeling her breath becoming ragged from that deep surge of fear and walking fast.

“I swear if I keep getting followed around I need to stop wearing high heels.”

The footsteps had stopped all of a sudden, and a certain silence descended over the whole place again, Jack ran a hand through her hair and sighed, feeling a slight wash of relief for just a split second...

“A Walk To A Farewell, eh?” The voice had the lilt of of Ayre accent, the guy it belonged too couldn't have been more than 5'7 tall, smiling as he almost swaggered down the aisle with a broad grin on his face. His eyes were hidden beneath round green tinted sunglasses and a slouch black hat covered his head shadowing most of his features. “I always found him rather... heavy handed, you know character wise, good descriptions though that really sets the scene.”

“Well I like it.” Jack raised an eyebrow, and felt a sudden urge urge to smash her head against a desk. The guy was hitting on her in the middle of a library.

“Sure, it's not a bad book.” the Ayre-man stopped, grinning wider flashing two fangs, his hands dug into the pockets of his black trench coat. “But always preferred Santel's Over The Mountain.” He took another step and another. He was close now, leaning forward coming face to face with Jack. He was by no means a handsome person, rail thin with a angular face with a hooked nose and with ears just a tad too big.

“Look, I'm not inter...”

“You do know you're being followed right?” he touched his goatee on his chin and scratched it absently.

“The thought more occurred to me that I am being blatantly hit own by a Ayre midget.” She pushed him aside, and took a turn left to get away. Her eyes were transfixed onto the floor as she walked along the long book shelf.

“Wait wait!” She could hear the loud footsteps of the ayreman now following her.

“Go away!” She stopped in frustration, looking up. Something moved up ahead in the shadows and she did not turn to scream at the ayreman.

He was tall, broad shouldered, with onyx black skin and purely white hair. Golden eyes flared in the darkness as he came slowly forward as he was correcting his black tie.

“Ms. Kirby.” His voice was deep with a rolling burr that reverberated in the huge room. He reached out his hands towards the book she held in her hands and flashed a white smile that seemed much more unpleasant than the ayreman behind her.

“You weren't hitting on me, were you?”

“No. ”
“Is he what I think he is?”

“Behen-sidhe? Oh yes.”

“I'm popular today.”

“That would be relative.”






19 August 2009 @ 03:32 am

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.


“War... What is it good for?”

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

Current Mood: chipperchipper
20 February 2009 @ 08:10 pm

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.”

28 December 2008 @ 11:56 pm
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.
25 November 2008 @ 08:24 pm
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!
21 November 2008 @ 07:52 pm
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.
27 September 2008 @ 06:11 pm
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.