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#Post#: 1035--------------------------------------------------
Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 13, 2025, 12:48 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/yurik.jpg[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]In the distance, the horizon was blotted
with the misty silhouettes of great mountains. Kįrpįtia.
Carpathia. The word came into his mind without prompting.
[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Surrounding him nearby were the
trappings of a medieval town. Shops and homes with closed wooden
doors and shuttered windows lined the cobblestone street. The
only signs of life were from a tavern at the far end of the
lane. Occasionally its door opened to admit or disgorge a
reveler, casting out a momentary shift of warmth and
light.[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Yorick felt cold. So cold. And alone. He
reached to pull his cloak more tightly around him. When he did
he found a single rose clutched in his fingers.
[size=2][font=Arial, sans-serif]The petals were lush and
crimson, and its thorns had cut into his palm, causing the same
color to drip slowly to the ground.[/font]
[/font][/size]
[font=Arial, sans-serif][size=2][font=Arial, sans-serif]He could
smell the drops of blood. He’d shed so much of it in his young
life that he knew the scent. This was unlike anything he’d ever
encountered, though. It wasn’t metallic and pungent. It was
sweet like honey with hints of jasmine and lemon. It reminded
him of the tree groves back home. Home. Where was that,
even?[/font][/font][/size]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]His steps fell against the stones of the
street, primitive leather soles scuffing and scraping. Wherever
his foot touched down, it left a wedge of slowly-spreading moss.
They were like footprints behind him. He never looked behind
though. Only forward.[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]He wasn't sure where he was going. Into
the woods. It was even darker there. Menacing. It was something
he had to do, but he didn't want to. His kind were meant to stay
within the city walls.[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Outside was where the world was,
though.[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Beyond the city gate the road became far
less beaten. He followed a trail until he was submerged in an
ocean of trees - wild and untamed. Leaning down, he picked up
some leather journal. The writings were Greek. An ancient
script. Botanical observations. Illustrations. Then he looked
up.[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]He wasn't alone.[/font]
#Post#: 1036--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 13, 2025, 7:04 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/75ca836e-395f-4e35-9389-e2c18a6b7cf0.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br][font=Arial, sans-serif]ey ƿhat žis nicht is
long[/font][br][font=Arial, sans-serif]And ich ƿiš ƿel
michel wrong[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]soregh and murne and fast[/font][br]
[hr]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]
A low whistling of air pierced the air near Yorick's left ear,
accompanied by a swift streak of motion. It ended when the arrow
hit home in a nearby tree. Vibrating with the force, then
falling still.[br]
A drop of blood fell from the shaft as if it had struck true
though something.[br]
The fletching of the arrow then warped, shifting and fanning
outward until it became the wings of a striped goshawk. Sharp
talons clutching a branch that had once been an arrow shaft. It
turned its head, regarding Yorick with one keen golden eye. [br]
The bird's beak was wet with blood as if from a fresh kill.
Black in the dim moonlight, dripping down to stain the feathers
on its chest. A moment later, it took to flight, fluttering over
Yorick's head and vanishing behind him in the darkness. [br]
"You should have care. It's dangerous to be out alone." A man's
voice pierced the darkness. The tone light enough. Teasing,
familiar. Stilted, as though the language on his lips wasn't his
native one, and accented heavily in a way that rang immediately
foreign Even barbaric and harsh.[br]
It belonged to the man who stepped out from the trees a moment
later. A warm green cloak pulled around his shoulders, a longbow
worn across his back. Dark hair falling free to the collar, the
shadow of dark beard on his face. [br]
His eyes, even in the poor lighting, were the same keen gold as
the hawk's. [br]
There was no blood on him, at least. Something else was off,
though, subtly. Hard to piece out at first glance. He stepped
into the clearing and stopped somewhere to Yorick's right, out
of his blind spot. And stood there, as inert and still as the
arrow in the tree. [br]
"What are we after tonight, then?" He asked, his attention
shifting to the book in Yorick's hand. Looking over the words on
the page with little to no recognition, then looking up, right
at him.[/font][/i]
#Post#: 1037--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 14, 2025, 2:49 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/yurik.jpg[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
Yorick eyed the bird as it eyed him. When it flew off, he felt
alone again. Then the strange man called out to him. He turned
on his heel, cloak billowing in the motion. One hand still held
the journal. The other was holding a pistol.
There was something unusual about the stranger. Horrible. Feral.
Frightening. But also familiar. A monster in the company of a
monster. The feeling of loneliness departed, and something else
took its place. Something dark but warm.
The hand holding the pistol was suddenly holding a feather pen.
Maybe it had never been a pistol at all. “Aconite. Created by
the goddess Hecate. There are many kinds. I’m hoping these
mountains are home to one as well. I think that they are.” He
didn’t know how or why he thought that, just that he did.
Yorick fell into step beside the other man as they walked
through the forest. “It’s tall with blue or purple flowers that
look like a helmet. So sometimes people call it monks’ hood. The
origin of the name is disputed. The word ‘akon’ means ‘dart’ or
‘javelin’ in Greek, whose tips are often coated with a liquid
distilled from the plant. There’s also a city of ill-repute, the
port of Aconae, whose rocky crags are covered with the flower.”
He chuckled. “There are many depraved stories about the plant.
About 1100 years ago, a man named Nicander of Colophon wrote a
book about poisons. In it, he calls aconite the ‘woman-killer’
because it’s believed that women are especially susceptible to
it, moreso when it’s applied to their nethers. Around the same
time, Marcus Caelius, a Roman centurion, accused a senator,
Calpurnius Bestia, of killing his wives by fingering them as
they slept.”
Yorick turned to look at the other man. “It’s known by another
name, too. Wolfsbane.”
#Post#: 1038--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 14, 2025, 10:53 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/75ca836e-395f-4e35-9389-e2c18a6b7cf0.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br][font=Arial, sans-serif]ey ƿhat žis nicht is
long[/font][br][font=Arial, sans-serif]And ich ƿiš ƿel
michel wrong[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]soregh and murne and fast[/font][br]
[hr]
[size=2][font=Arial, sans-serif]
Geoffrey walked beside Yorick keeping an easy pace. Picking over
the rough ground, his own low boots of a similar make to
Yorick's. A harder sole, but no cobbling, no tread. Every piece
of his gear was well worn, but well-kept. Mended instead of
replaced, good linen and wool too costly a thing to replace for
no reason.[br]
"A blue flower shaped like a monk's hood. Will the flower be
open or closed?" It was a prudent question to ask for foraging
after sunset. He angled his gaze back to the book as if trying
to get a look at the drawings. [br]
Then, he stopped to grin at that last part, showing a set of
too-sharp white teeth.[br]
"Ha" The coarseness of the story seemeed to delight him to no
end. The laugh was earnest, the sound escaping his throat as he
shook his head."And they said the Romans were so civilized. What
will you - "[br]
Then, Geoffrey stopped abruptly, eyes ahead as if scouting the
path ahead for danger. Looking a little too far ahead to see the
obvious threat.[br]
A large grey wolf blocked the way. Stood looking at them
balefully. Looking at Geoffrey in particular as though it was
practicaly salivating for the chance to leap at him, tear out
his throat.[br]
"λῠκοκτόνον."
It spoke, and it spoke with Geoffrey's own voice. Yawned,
showing a mouth of too-sharp white teeth and bounded immediately
off into the trees.[br]
There was the sense, though, that it was following them still.
Stalking behind or too the side. Eyes that glowed a baleful red
in the dark, the beast making its position known.[br]
"What will you use it for?" He asked the question, continuing as
though they'd never been interrupted.
#Post#: 1041--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 16, 2025, 10:06 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/yurik.jpg[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
As if sensing the other man's interest in the journal page,
Yorick held the book up, turning the page towards him. It was
covered by lines of neat Greek lettering and two illustrations.
“I've never seen this plant during the day. I didn't even learn
to read and write until after the embrace. Until after my boy
was killed.”
He turned to look at his companion, face etched with confusion
and unfamiliarity. “How do I exist? How is it possible?”
He squinted at the wolf. It spoke Greek but he struggled to
understand the words.
“It sounds like you.” He backed away from the other man but
after only a few paces he suddenly hit up against a door. It
stood upright next to a tree. It was made of wood and metal and
covered with childlike drawings and coloring pages taped to its
surface.
Horrified, Yorick shoved the doorframe, and it fell to the
ground, collapsing into a pile of centipedes that started to
scurry about. Yorick tripped over a root and fell onto his
backside, and the centipedes began to crawl over him.
“I'll tell you it's used for medicine but it's actually for an
experiment. I'm trying to create a poison. To kill you.”
Something about that statement seemed wrong. Or maybe
inaccurate. He didn’t even know why he’d admitted it. “Khemeioa
to replace discipline.”
He tried to shake off the centipedes but they refused to
release, and some of them started to burrow into his clothing
and his skin.
#Post#: 1042--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 16, 2025, 12:07 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/75ca836e-395f-4e35-9389-e2c18a6b7cf0.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]ey ƿhat žis nicht is
long[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]And ich ƿiš ƿel michel
wrong[font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]soregh and murne and fast[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif][/font]
[hr]
"What do you mean, how do you exist?" The question caught
Geoffrey a little off guard. His lips curled in as close to
genuine amusement as it seemed he could manage. [br]
"The same as all of us: you died. And you did not stay dead: you
were brought back." He answered what could very well have been a
rhetorical question. His gaze then darted to the trees and the
baleful shadow of the animal stalking them, acknowledging its
presence for the first time.[br]
"Oh, the Beast? That's because it is me." He said it like it was
something equally forgone. An acceptance with a sense of
something dark and deep that stretched far into the night. "It's
always there, until the night it catches me."[br]
The weary desolation etched into his face vanished abruptly when
Yorick tumbled to the earth. His first instinct was to reach out
a hand to help steady him. Until the confession came past the
man's lips. He then froze, fingers curling in the air. Forming a
fist; the thumb pressing into the knuckles until he was rewarded
with a series of satisfying little cracks.[br]
He couldn't have looked more surprised if Yorick had taken a
blade and shoved it between his ribs.[br]
You would dare It was the wolf, snarling in the shadows with
Geoffrey's own voice. Suddenly furious, ravenous. loping around
between the trees, occasionally darting forward like it was
straining against a lead. All slavering fangs and glowing red
eyes.[br]
After all of this. The nights we've shared, the blood we've
spilled together. I've aided you. We have aided each other, and
this - [br]
He then reached down to seize Yorick by the arm roughly. He
pulled him to his feet with a power and a quickness that was
about impossible to struggle free from.[br]
He buried a set of razor-sharp claws into the flesh of Yorick's
arm as if to pull out the insects. All the while staring him
dolefully in the face, his amber gaze alight. [br]
"...have I offended you?" He asked, his cold anger matching the
wolf's ferocity. "Are you bored of me already, is that it?? Have
I ceased to amuse you? Am I truly that dull to you,
that...low."[br]
He dug the claws in deeper as if burrowing after a particularly
swift and stubborn one.
#Post#: 1043--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 16, 2025, 10:20 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/yurik.jpg[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
Yorick’s face was a mask of absolute confusion mixed with equal
amounts of fear. The man was so strong, stronger than any man
had a right to be. Up close, Yorick had no more recognition of
who the man was than when he’d been walking beside him.
He cried out as the claws gouged into his arms, and thrashed in
an absolute panic, trying to escape. There was no escape,
though; it was like being held by a pair of iron manacles.
“I don’t even know who you are!” he screamed, unable to
withstand the pain wracking his upper body. His eyes rolled back
into his head and his eyelids fluttered. One of the centipedes
spilled out of his mouth and scuttled down his shoulder,
scurrying up Geoffrey’s arm before diving into him at the
shoulder socket.
The next moment, Yorick shuddered violently, and he seemed to
fall out of his body like a snake shedding its skin. He landed
on the forest floor, naked and covered in a slick of blood that
called out to Geoffrey’s hunger. Before the other man could do
anything about it, though, the carpet of dirt, pine needles,
sticks and cones collapsed beneath him.
Yorick sank into the earth, melding with the soil and stone.
Geoffrey was left holding a remnant of a man; a grotesque
rubbery suit shrouded in clothing. The next moment, the ground
trembled, and a yawning expanse opened up beneath Geoffrey.
#Post#: 1044--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 17, 2025, 11:06 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/75ca836e-395f-4e35-9389-e2c18a6b7cf0.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]ey ƿhat žis nicht is
long[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]And ich ƿiš ƿel michel
wrong[br] [/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]soregh and murne and fast[/font]
[hr]
The fury in his eyes gave way to surprise again when Yorick slid
out of his skin. The wolf strained in the darkness towards his
bloody form. The burrowing centipede in his shoulder hit a
nerve, sent a wave of pain through his arm. He clutched at it
helplessly with his claws, trying to dig it out.[br]
Then the ground opened up under his feet.[br]
"Yurik!" He called a name as he plummeted into the earth. It
covered him. His flesh dissolved into it, becoming a solid part
of it, like a stone buried in cropland.[br]
Vague images flashed by him as he fell: he lay on a divan with
his head on a woman's lap, reading slowly from a book while a
man with Yorick's face listened with a smile. A small white dog
rested on a cushion nearby, occasionally twitching an ear in its
blissful rest. He fired an arrow in the darkness at a winged
monster that looked as though it had been carved from cathedral
stone. He rode into a twisted grove of trees on a horse, bow at
the ready.[br]
It went on, and on, until at last it was still. It was still for
what felt like a long time.[br]
He opened his eyes to blackness. Lying on his back in a darkened
room with no landscapes. Nothing to see, nothing to touch but
the cold floor beneath him. [br]
The signs of the world drifted in as if from a distant room. The
sounds of shouting and screaming: dying men, dying horses, a
battlefield. Guns and cannon fire, the smell of gunpowder and
death and blood. So much blood. He ached for it, a ravenous
longing that itched every fiber and sinew and could not be
satisfied. It was far away. He couldn't reach.[br]
He found his hands again and groped blindly upwards into the
darkness, reaching around for purchase. Something to tell him
where he was. Something to pull himself up.[br]
"The same as all of us." He hazily remembered something he'd
said....how long ago? It left his lips in a rough almost
whisper.[br]
"You died, and you did not stay dead."
#Post#: 1045--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 18, 2025, 12:03 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/ricky4.png[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
Yorick saw nothing as he fell. It was just darkness. He thought
he heard things, though. His father’s voice telling him to put
away those damned tarot cards. A little chime above a door
opening. His second father reading a poem from T.S. Eliot. Then
a young woman, anguished and arrogant.
I steal from the dead to learn their secrets.
His eyes blinked open, and his other senses started to get
flooded with input. His face was pressed against the cold
cobblestone of a street. His ears split with a high-pitched
squeal. Heat flushed his body with an uncomfortable intensity.
His nerves were singing with pain, some sharp and some dull.
Pushing himself up, he fought off disorientation. Next to him, a
three-story building was in ruins and ablaze. A bomb. An ambush.
He’d been blown clear by the explosion, stopped only by the
dented driver’s side door of a sedan whose windows were all
shattered. He ran a hand through his hair and dislodged bits of
safety glass.
Tor Bella Monaca.
Ravelle and Sanderson were dead. Suddenly his ears cleared a bit
and he heard sirens. Saw movement in the alley. Cultists.
No. Please no, not this.
A voice cried out over the comms. “Yurik!” Then what sounded
like a grunt or groan.
Nausea pooled in his stomach but he forced his limbs to move.
Pushed the pain down until he was standing atop it. Until he was
stomping it against the ground as he sprinted towards a
rendezvous point. Glancing behind him, he saw a shadowy figure
give chase. The man from the alley. He’d be dead soon too.
I thought I knew everything when I came to Rome, but I soon
found I had everything to learn.
Why did that come to mind? It hardly mattered. He vaulted over a
wall, cutting into an alley. Rounding a corner, he saw a young
man sprawled on the asphalt. Blood was pooling beneath him.
Standing over him, another figure. A man of shadow. It wasn’t
right, it wasn’t correct. He couldn’t remember what the man
looked like.
It hardly mattered.
The figure turned towards him. Raised his weapon. Too late.
Yorick already had a knife between his fingers. The whispered
prayer had already left his lips and flew to Atropos the
Inevitable. Then the knife flew, like a dove released from a
cage. In slow motion, it sailed across space and time, embedding
itself in the shadow-man’s eyesocket.
Wretched beast. Deserved so much worse! Deserved to suffer
slowly!
Yorick rushed over to his fallen companion. “Colin?” Gently, he
turned the young man over. “Colin?!” He stared numbly down into
Geoffrey’s face. “Stick with me, buddy.” The other man was still
alive, but already dead. Warm, but turning cold.
Footsteps slapped against the cobblestone. The chasing figure
approached. Another shadow man. Another fool who raced towards
death. Yorick snatched the fallen pistol and dropped to the
ground, aiming just as his pursuer rounded the corner. The
pursuer skidded to a halt; tried to backpedal.
Too late, fucker.
Shots ring out. The Cultist fell.
Yorick leaned over his friend. His best friend, his only friend.
Searched him for the wound. Tried to stanch the bleeding…but no
avail. Life essence simply gushed over his hands. “Please, don’t
do this. Please, no.” He searched his mind for any training, any
Siddhi, any…anything. He found nothing. Atropos had answered his
prayer, but demanded a sacrifice. He cradled Geoffrey's head in
his lap and was wracked with sobs.
Sirens again. Someone must have heard the shots. Even in this
shitty neighborhood, the Polizia answered. A chill fell over
him. Emptiness. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Then,
methodically, he searched Geoffrey's body. Took his phone and
wallet. Reached for the pendant around his neck, and paused.
Maybe it was profane to steal from the dead. The silver circle
bore the image of St Christopher, patron saint of travelers. Of
bachelors. Of gardeners. Yorick took it and put it in his
pocket. Maybe he would need its protection. Colin would have
wanted him to have it. He was next-of-kin in most ways that
mattered, anyhow.
Picking up the hard black case a few feet away, he started
walking as briskly as he could manage away from the scene.
#Post#: 1047--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 18, 2025, 1:09 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/fcf47666-74d6-4cdc-a0ce-19e35bce1703.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]ey ƿhat žis nicht is
long[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]And ich ƿiš ƿel michel
wrong[br] [/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]soregh and murne and fast[/font]
[hr]
The world came back. Stars overhead, the haze of smoke in the
air. The orange glow of the fire was distant enough that the
terror of it was just a flicker. He didn't think he could move
if he wanted to.[br]
The buildings around him blurred and warped in his vision. First
stone, then trees. The royal forest of Dean that he'd grown up
in, died in. He felt so feeble, so heavy. All the blood leaving
his body and taking all the wamrth with it. [br]
He'd forgotten what it had felt like to die a mortal's
death.[br]
The shadowy figure looming over him briefly became a slight
woman with wild brown hair and a bloody grin. Looking down at
him,undeniably smug.[br]
Well done, brave hunter
The throwing knife cutting through her flesh took her by
surprise. She looked down, incredulous, before dissolving in the
air into ash.[br]
"I-"[br]
Geoffrey tried to speak. It came out like a gasp as his head
listed over to lay in Yorick's lap. Warmth blossomed behindhis
cold ribcage, a feeling of peace and security while Yorick clung
to him and wept.[br]
It was nice, wasn't it. To not have to die alone.[br]
His eyes closed and he was back in that black place. The sounds
of some battleground had faded to the sounds of cars on the
highway. Voices in the dark, laughing. Some song in the air he
wasn't familiar with, that crackled oddly. The verse was
soothing, like an old sermon he'd heard a long time ago. That
there was a time for every action divinely ordained by God; a
time for dying, a time for planting and for sowing, for making
war and for making peace....[br]
...and a time to every a purpose under Heaven[br]
The saints' medallion in Yorick's hands turned in the light from
the burning building. St. Christopher with his dog's head.
Then, a woman with a wolf at her feet; some saint he might not
be able to place. A second trinket slid out from behind it, the
larger coin impossibly concealed behind the smaller medallion
until it was sitting in his fingers. The head of some Roman
emperor, crowned by a wreath of lines that looked like the rays
of the sun.[br]
One of the policemen leaned down, shining a flashlight into his
eyes, and that was all he needed.[br]
He reached out, grasping the man roughly by the throat and
pulling him down. His fangs sunk in and he drank. Slaking a
thirst that went on for ever, that felt like it had no end.
Until slowly, by increments, it started to recede like the tide.
When his partner came over, he grabbed her too. Held her fast
while she shrieked until it was her turn.[br]
They both smelled overwhelmingly like patchouli and weed[br]
Then, he sat up. Drawing a hand across his face, he looked down
the darkened street where Yorick had vanished.[br]
He got up to follow.[br]
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