The day was long. The day was hot. The day was blood red.
A specific kind of war had driven many of them mad, not that they were not already a maddened sort. They were the strong and beautiful. Ghostly sculptures of cold skin that often times deceived the cattle into believing they were at least tepid. Left out to rot meat under a baking sun and now cooled to a degree that made them interesting. Many of them had wild, wild eyes that were black enough to collect the stars. Often thought as of shamans, of soothsayers for a generation still building seance circles and massive structures meant for appeasing long dead gods.
But this day? This day the gods awoke.
Screams were a verse that played over and over. The broken jargon of the dead feasting on the dead. They came in swarms like too fast insects on two legs, some on four, and they all seemed to sing the very same song. One of carnage. One of a rabid need to snuff out what had banded together a family of Thirteen.
And the children of Shaitan wept, but they did not flee.
Each one of them fought against their brethren, against their sisters, and became shredded ribbons of corpses that no longer had the thirst. They lay in the final death and spit their curses at those that put them to their graves. Burned their bones, salted the ashes.
These were the last moments of sweet, sweet beasts that carried the last connection to Ashur. For they never breathed in the shadow of Knossos but felt the white hot magma of her bosom. The milk of the fire which cleansed the stronghold of Chorazin.
Together, they held their ashen hands until no longer could they. Brittle as dried wood and just as quick to burst into flames. The Thirteen watched as the horrors were drawn to the cloaks of the Neverborns and pulled far, far to the thickest edges of Oblivion. And how they cheered! They roared with their bellies and their frozen tongues while the black blood of their most hated kin became history for their dusty tomes.
But I did not join my children in their demise.
We Are the Wild Ones
Re: We Are the Wild Ones
300 BC Chorazin
War of Thirteen
The world was painted in oily red.
Dust rose from the bleeding earth. Heavy enough to act as a fog that not even the wind could push aside, a blanket of it to make the scene look surreal. This was a dream that had quickly escalated into a nightmare. Outlines lay in the sludge, marks of fingers that skidded across the top soil in a last show of rebellion. None had been able to muster enough to survive but they left their sigils in their own cruor. Flags that weathered the battle were tipped over, crooked when planted in the nothing that was left behind from the dead. Each banner flew a color; there was blue lined in gold, green threaded with amber, white branded with black, all belonging to those that had found victory in the slaughter of beautiful beasts.
Watching it unfold had been harrowing, more severe was not being able to care for the collapsed bloodline. Shaitan would have shut their eyes had they been able to. Black magic, a single filament from each of the Thirteen's oldest, kept Shaitan shackled. Chained by nefarious tendrils of black. Deformed by razor thin cracks in brimstone bones, skin pulled back, filleted to expose giant gaps of wounds that once hid vital organs that even devils had. Shaitan thrashed, possibly damaging itself even more, fighting against the clutches of the Thirteen, and howled awful sounds with its many tongues.
Its cries were not from physical pain.
Its cries were from the maternal sorrow of losing its fanged lambs.
"Throw it into the tomb so I won't have to hear it anymore!" Orontes, warrior of Ventrue, with his brow bloodied and his fingers gouging into the wet dirt, said tiredly. Many of his own lay in the same ashen grave of those they were sent to slay.
Onward they pulled, forcing it to lose footing, skidding back with heels digging in, waging a personal crusade against its captors. The struggle erupted into terrible hysteria that startled Orontes and the others, goading them into standing to defend themselves had it broken the groping leashes of their abilities.
A clawed hand fell just at Orontes' feet, dwarfing him completely and reminding all of the Thirteen that this was no ordinary fiend. The planet rattled beneath them at the impact it made, tearing into the disturbed soil of this unholy kingdom. All these voices came from all angles, all directions, echoes of banshee wails. Tide of Hells own butchered choir that now sang a grim song, puncturing all that remained in venomous carols, clutching at their ears in malady that invaded their skulls. They wished not to fall under the misguided spell this she-beast sang of shrill screams and agonizing screeches.
"You will pay, Orontes! All of you will pay. All of you will feast on nothing but the vengeance we shall seek out. That day will come, Orontes! We will not forget a single slight you have made to my children and to me. You will wish that you, all of you, had burned up into nothing this night after we are finished feeding our divine hunger with your pitiful lives. We shall hunt you all in their name, give them rest for the atrocity of this pathetic war. They may be gone to your eyes but their souls still cry out, and you have brought a gods wrath unto this world! Our curse will be at your feet, at your children's feet, and their children's -- all of your brethren, all of you righteous Thirteen, will burn!"
"Throw it in!" Orontes yelled, clutching his hands to his ears, raising his voice in an attempt to command over the creatures lament.
Every eye, unblinking and blood stained gold, wide enough to swallow the moon and hoard it until the end of time, kept a fierce watch on Orontes. Pupils quivering from the flex of voracious rage. Every one of them burned in the dark that the abomination was unwilling to die in. They fixated until the tomb was sealed, not a single crack left for the devils consort to peer through, until Orontes and the rest felt a false sense of security at no longer seeing its mutated form.
Since that hostile night, none slept soundly. Their spectral lives haunted by those unyielding eyes and the promise of damnable vindication.
War of Thirteen
The world was painted in oily red.
Dust rose from the bleeding earth. Heavy enough to act as a fog that not even the wind could push aside, a blanket of it to make the scene look surreal. This was a dream that had quickly escalated into a nightmare. Outlines lay in the sludge, marks of fingers that skidded across the top soil in a last show of rebellion. None had been able to muster enough to survive but they left their sigils in their own cruor. Flags that weathered the battle were tipped over, crooked when planted in the nothing that was left behind from the dead. Each banner flew a color; there was blue lined in gold, green threaded with amber, white branded with black, all belonging to those that had found victory in the slaughter of beautiful beasts.
Watching it unfold had been harrowing, more severe was not being able to care for the collapsed bloodline. Shaitan would have shut their eyes had they been able to. Black magic, a single filament from each of the Thirteen's oldest, kept Shaitan shackled. Chained by nefarious tendrils of black. Deformed by razor thin cracks in brimstone bones, skin pulled back, filleted to expose giant gaps of wounds that once hid vital organs that even devils had. Shaitan thrashed, possibly damaging itself even more, fighting against the clutches of the Thirteen, and howled awful sounds with its many tongues.
Its cries were not from physical pain.
Its cries were from the maternal sorrow of losing its fanged lambs.
"Throw it into the tomb so I won't have to hear it anymore!" Orontes, warrior of Ventrue, with his brow bloodied and his fingers gouging into the wet dirt, said tiredly. Many of his own lay in the same ashen grave of those they were sent to slay.
Onward they pulled, forcing it to lose footing, skidding back with heels digging in, waging a personal crusade against its captors. The struggle erupted into terrible hysteria that startled Orontes and the others, goading them into standing to defend themselves had it broken the groping leashes of their abilities.
A clawed hand fell just at Orontes' feet, dwarfing him completely and reminding all of the Thirteen that this was no ordinary fiend. The planet rattled beneath them at the impact it made, tearing into the disturbed soil of this unholy kingdom. All these voices came from all angles, all directions, echoes of banshee wails. Tide of Hells own butchered choir that now sang a grim song, puncturing all that remained in venomous carols, clutching at their ears in malady that invaded their skulls. They wished not to fall under the misguided spell this she-beast sang of shrill screams and agonizing screeches.
"You will pay, Orontes! All of you will pay. All of you will feast on nothing but the vengeance we shall seek out. That day will come, Orontes! We will not forget a single slight you have made to my children and to me. You will wish that you, all of you, had burned up into nothing this night after we are finished feeding our divine hunger with your pitiful lives. We shall hunt you all in their name, give them rest for the atrocity of this pathetic war. They may be gone to your eyes but their souls still cry out, and you have brought a gods wrath unto this world! Our curse will be at your feet, at your children's feet, and their children's -- all of your brethren, all of you righteous Thirteen, will burn!"
"Throw it in!" Orontes yelled, clutching his hands to his ears, raising his voice in an attempt to command over the creatures lament.
Every eye, unblinking and blood stained gold, wide enough to swallow the moon and hoard it until the end of time, kept a fierce watch on Orontes. Pupils quivering from the flex of voracious rage. Every one of them burned in the dark that the abomination was unwilling to die in. They fixated until the tomb was sealed, not a single crack left for the devils consort to peer through, until Orontes and the rest felt a false sense of security at no longer seeing its mutated form.
Since that hostile night, none slept soundly. Their spectral lives haunted by those unyielding eyes and the promise of damnable vindication.
Last edited by Shaitan on Fri Apr 24, 2020 3:10 am, edited 1 time in total.
Re: We Are the Wild Ones
September 1st, 2014
Somewhere in New York City
Candle light flickered. The trembling of flames painted the old walls Persian orange and saffron. This place smelled of cold copper, raw meat, and left over touches of too sweetperfume. A large mass of lifeless limbs, empty eye sockets, and exposed teeth from frozen lips.
Things had been devoured here.
A thousand scales rubbing against one another created a constant sound. Roiling, coiling, embedded in a dead heap. The kingdom of Sodom was here as a land of corpses. They all seemed to intertwine with one another, braiding at the elbows and crooked knees. Bones began to snap and crumble, splinter and break, as the leviathan wading beneath a canopy of carcasses shifted its unholy mass.
"Have you had enough?"
Isaiah, who was placidly leaning, did so in the oval lining of the entrance. He was a sharp dressed man who enjoyed gold cufflinks and expensive things. Precise in his make up from his recently polished shoes to the slick arrangement of his dark hair. He blew across the top of the tea cup that was still too hot. The steam fit well as a special effect on this macabre scene.
Many mouths began to move that heralded sharp teeth like that of sharks. Rows upon rows of whetted fang, licked by forked tongues that rattled as serpents might. Slithering to ribbon around snapped necks that made the hoard of heads all wobble like flimsy dolls. A ballad of guttural whispers came through the chamber as if the walls themselves spoke a long dead dialect.
This language was not for the dearly departed. It was for those that had never been birthed properly.
Isiah squinted. The bulk of the beast shifting beneath all the deceased. He rolled his hand to the side. A watch on his wrist glinted more light than the diabolical scales.
"It is just past nine, my la-- Butcher. Shall I get the car ready?"
A single cadaver tumbled down. The eye behind it, wide and the color of an amber dusk, reptilian and primal, studied him.
"Excellent choice. I haven't been able to drive the Rolls Royce yet."
Somewhere in New York City
Candle light flickered. The trembling of flames painted the old walls Persian orange and saffron. This place smelled of cold copper, raw meat, and left over touches of too sweetperfume. A large mass of lifeless limbs, empty eye sockets, and exposed teeth from frozen lips.
Things had been devoured here.
A thousand scales rubbing against one another created a constant sound. Roiling, coiling, embedded in a dead heap. The kingdom of Sodom was here as a land of corpses. They all seemed to intertwine with one another, braiding at the elbows and crooked knees. Bones began to snap and crumble, splinter and break, as the leviathan wading beneath a canopy of carcasses shifted its unholy mass.
"Have you had enough?"
Isaiah, who was placidly leaning, did so in the oval lining of the entrance. He was a sharp dressed man who enjoyed gold cufflinks and expensive things. Precise in his make up from his recently polished shoes to the slick arrangement of his dark hair. He blew across the top of the tea cup that was still too hot. The steam fit well as a special effect on this macabre scene.
Many mouths began to move that heralded sharp teeth like that of sharks. Rows upon rows of whetted fang, licked by forked tongues that rattled as serpents might. Slithering to ribbon around snapped necks that made the hoard of heads all wobble like flimsy dolls. A ballad of guttural whispers came through the chamber as if the walls themselves spoke a long dead dialect.
This language was not for the dearly departed. It was for those that had never been birthed properly.
Isiah squinted. The bulk of the beast shifting beneath all the deceased. He rolled his hand to the side. A watch on his wrist glinted more light than the diabolical scales.
"It is just past nine, my la-- Butcher. Shall I get the car ready?"
A single cadaver tumbled down. The eye behind it, wide and the color of an amber dusk, reptilian and primal, studied him.
"Excellent choice. I haven't been able to drive the Rolls Royce yet."
Re: We Are the Wild Ones
December 22nd, 2014
Somewhere in Chicago
Every step felt heavy.
He aimed to push off on his heel while digging his rubber toes into the corners. Long legs helped keep him at a quick pace. The wind through his hair, on his freshly shaved face. He had shaved specifically for Holly. She had told him once that when it started to grow it lessened his charm. Made him seem less the picture perfect boyfriend. So it was almost every morning for two months now that he would get up specifically to put the razor to his face.
And now it just stung with how the temperature had dropped.
Further into the maze of alleys he went. He thought it smart to avoid the spotlights of lamps lining all around the streets. He thought that the dark would help him blend in with his dark jeans and the black hoodie. Only sign of life coming from the scuffing struggle of his shoes to moistened asphalt from an earlier dusting of snow and a panicked cloud of vapor every time he spit out a breath. Panting like a dog. No, a wolf.
He stumbled down the corridor between the meat deli and the run down laundry mat. Took a quick right through the open drive that separated Mickey's Pub from the Chinese food place that he used to joke about owning one day just because their chow fun was the best he had tried. He wanted to take Holly on a date to the pizza place he ran into, the glass of the door trembling when he tripped up on the slippery sidewalk. They had some of the greasiest garlic knots he had sampled.
To do that, though, he had to keep running.
The streets is where he ended up, further to the outskirts of two main intersections that were dead at this time of night. Empty, void of passing cars which kept the stoplight from changing from red to green. He had to stop here, in the very center of it, his lungs stinging with every gulp of frigid December air he took in. Hands to his slightly bent knees. The rush of his long distance marathon bringing on that flare up of heat to cramp at his thighs.
Breathing in, breathing out. Sweat had formed over his temples and was growing icy as it dribbled down his cheeks.
It was quiet here. The world might have stopped turning because he heard nothing. No city hustle and bustle from the belly of downtown. No train howling out that it was on the move. Just dead air. Silence. Not even a hint of white noise.
He suddenly felt vulnerable, even more so when there was a snap of bubble gum from a sharp mouth that popped off like a gunshot.
"Hello, Peter. Or do you prefer Pete? Maybe Calhoun?"
He really wished it was a gunshot.
Somewhere in Chicago
Every step felt heavy.
He aimed to push off on his heel while digging his rubber toes into the corners. Long legs helped keep him at a quick pace. The wind through his hair, on his freshly shaved face. He had shaved specifically for Holly. She had told him once that when it started to grow it lessened his charm. Made him seem less the picture perfect boyfriend. So it was almost every morning for two months now that he would get up specifically to put the razor to his face.
And now it just stung with how the temperature had dropped.
Further into the maze of alleys he went. He thought it smart to avoid the spotlights of lamps lining all around the streets. He thought that the dark would help him blend in with his dark jeans and the black hoodie. Only sign of life coming from the scuffing struggle of his shoes to moistened asphalt from an earlier dusting of snow and a panicked cloud of vapor every time he spit out a breath. Panting like a dog. No, a wolf.
He stumbled down the corridor between the meat deli and the run down laundry mat. Took a quick right through the open drive that separated Mickey's Pub from the Chinese food place that he used to joke about owning one day just because their chow fun was the best he had tried. He wanted to take Holly on a date to the pizza place he ran into, the glass of the door trembling when he tripped up on the slippery sidewalk. They had some of the greasiest garlic knots he had sampled.
To do that, though, he had to keep running.
The streets is where he ended up, further to the outskirts of two main intersections that were dead at this time of night. Empty, void of passing cars which kept the stoplight from changing from red to green. He had to stop here, in the very center of it, his lungs stinging with every gulp of frigid December air he took in. Hands to his slightly bent knees. The rush of his long distance marathon bringing on that flare up of heat to cramp at his thighs.
Breathing in, breathing out. Sweat had formed over his temples and was growing icy as it dribbled down his cheeks.
It was quiet here. The world might have stopped turning because he heard nothing. No city hustle and bustle from the belly of downtown. No train howling out that it was on the move. Just dead air. Silence. Not even a hint of white noise.
He suddenly felt vulnerable, even more so when there was a snap of bubble gum from a sharp mouth that popped off like a gunshot.
"Hello, Peter. Or do you prefer Pete? Maybe Calhoun?"
He really wished it was a gunshot.
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