22 October 2010
15 October 2010
Karnak.
Demon of Wounds.
A Lord of Hell.
Master of some of the most fearsome daemon-mages in the world.
And the unlikely hero of Kieth, currently trapped in a raging inferno with a shard of timber large enough to fell a rhino pinning him to the ground. The Demon of Wounds smiled whimsically, his memory on the time he became a Demon Lord, in a very similar setting. He waved the memory away, looking around at the circle which had called forth his Unholy presence. It was crude, hastily made, and, most importantly, made of a large amount of the blood of a dying man. Essentially, it was the perfect example of the original purpose of the science of Summoning.
Except for the slight issue that it was not a last ditch effort to cause mayhem in the enemy's ranks by a felled sorcerer, but apparently a last ditch effort at rescue of said felled sorcerer. Karnak narrowed his purple eyes; he knew full well that he would most likely end up regretting this act of...he dared not use the term "kindness", as daemons knew not of that most Holy of ideas...he again waved aside the thought and took a step out of the summoning circle, making sure that the binding spell in the runes was not meant to bind him completely to the circle unless ordered out by the summoner (which he'd seen the misfortune of happening to an enemy once: the poor fool had ended up gored by his spear while the summoned daemon had stood there and laughed hysterically), and released an unknowingly held breath of satisfaction at his summoner's foresight.
He flicked his wrist and placed a pair of red-tinted glasses on the bridge of his nose, his eyes focused on the wood pinning his current "master" (how he hated the term "master"; it implied a level of ownership over the one summoned. In truth, any daemon worth his salt could refuse a summons rather easily. It was just usually the case that the daemon was..."between jobs" popped into his head as the proper term here...and so usually answered the summons) and the almost alarming (for a human, anyway) amount of blood pooled beneath it. A second, and apparently equally alarming, pool of blood had formed from the rather painful looking gash on the poor lad's arm.
Karnak's lips twisted upward and his nose crinkled in distaste. He never understood the need for such massive wounds to get the proper amount of blood for the summoning circles; often the same circle could be scribed with the blood lost by a smaller, and safer, slit across the wrist. He supposed it could just be chalked up to something stupid like "tradition" (another term he found he loathed), and licked two fingers. With a sadistic grin, he ran his fingers over the large and now clotted wound. The flesh closed with a hiss of red steam, a shiny red scar now in the place of the open scarlet wound. With another smile he licked his fingers again, this time to taste the wonderful, dying blood, the hint of soul upon it like the wonderful flavors of a well aged wine.
He savored the taste for a moment and then looked once more at the much bigger problem of the wood stuck through his summoner's leg. He supposed that the man would want that gone as well, and shook his head, his eyes closed at the man's stupidity.
I mean really, how stupid can you be, waiting in a building that was clearly going to collapse with a fire of this magnitude, Karnak thought to himself as he walked around Kieth's crumpled form. He searched for the proper place to split the timber and remove it before he disinfected and sealed the sizable hole that would be left behind.
Demon of Wounds.
A Lord of Hell.
Master of some of the most fearsome daemon-mages in the world.
And the unlikely hero of Kieth, currently trapped in a raging inferno with a shard of timber large enough to fell a rhino pinning him to the ground. The Demon of Wounds smiled whimsically, his memory on the time he became a Demon Lord, in a very similar setting. He waved the memory away, looking around at the circle which had called forth his Unholy presence. It was crude, hastily made, and, most importantly, made of a large amount of the blood of a dying man. Essentially, it was the perfect example of the original purpose of the science of Summoning.
Except for the slight issue that it was not a last ditch effort to cause mayhem in the enemy's ranks by a felled sorcerer, but apparently a last ditch effort at rescue of said felled sorcerer. Karnak narrowed his purple eyes; he knew full well that he would most likely end up regretting this act of...he dared not use the term "kindness", as daemons knew not of that most Holy of ideas...he again waved aside the thought and took a step out of the summoning circle, making sure that the binding spell in the runes was not meant to bind him completely to the circle unless ordered out by the summoner (which he'd seen the misfortune of happening to an enemy once: the poor fool had ended up gored by his spear while the summoned daemon had stood there and laughed hysterically), and released an unknowingly held breath of satisfaction at his summoner's foresight.
He flicked his wrist and placed a pair of red-tinted glasses on the bridge of his nose, his eyes focused on the wood pinning his current "master" (how he hated the term "master"; it implied a level of ownership over the one summoned. In truth, any daemon worth his salt could refuse a summons rather easily. It was just usually the case that the daemon was..."between jobs" popped into his head as the proper term here...and so usually answered the summons) and the almost alarming (for a human, anyway) amount of blood pooled beneath it. A second, and apparently equally alarming, pool of blood had formed from the rather painful looking gash on the poor lad's arm.
Karnak's lips twisted upward and his nose crinkled in distaste. He never understood the need for such massive wounds to get the proper amount of blood for the summoning circles; often the same circle could be scribed with the blood lost by a smaller, and safer, slit across the wrist. He supposed it could just be chalked up to something stupid like "tradition" (another term he found he loathed), and licked two fingers. With a sadistic grin, he ran his fingers over the large and now clotted wound. The flesh closed with a hiss of red steam, a shiny red scar now in the place of the open scarlet wound. With another smile he licked his fingers again, this time to taste the wonderful, dying blood, the hint of soul upon it like the wonderful flavors of a well aged wine.
He savored the taste for a moment and then looked once more at the much bigger problem of the wood stuck through his summoner's leg. He supposed that the man would want that gone as well, and shook his head, his eyes closed at the man's stupidity.
I mean really, how stupid can you be, waiting in a building that was clearly going to collapse with a fire of this magnitude, Karnak thought to himself as he walked around Kieth's crumpled form. He searched for the proper place to split the timber and remove it before he disinfected and sealed the sizable hole that would be left behind.
14 October 2010
He stared at the phone in disbelief, his heart racing and his mind blank. She had just shattered his calm with a simple four word sentence. The four words which, on their own really didn't instill nearly as much fear, or even in pairs and random groupings didn't scare him half as much. But, those four, together in that single order, those four words terrified him. He had learned, through previous trials and tribulations, that those four words were akin to the death knell of any relationship, especially when things had become rough or sporadic in said relationship.
And things had. Become difficult, that is. They weren't able to see each other as much, what with her mother being terribly sick in the hospital. Almost all her waking hours not in school were spent sitting at her mother's bedside. And he understood. He really did. He recalled his grandfather's fight with cancer, remembered the long hours spent in the hospital waiting room while his father sat next to his grandfather, head often hung down with his palms on his forehead.
He understood why they weren't seeing each other as much. But he hadn't thought things were getting that bad that fast, for her to say it.
Still. She had said those four words. And now he was afraid. He felt his chest tighten up and his hands numbing, his eyes misting over and his knees caving, felt his bed conform to his body and heard the springs groan in protest to the sudden pressure placed upon them. The sound of the metal straining shook him from his shaken stupor. His fingers moved of their own accord, the reply typed out quickly and concisely, a simple "goodnight" and "i love you", sent off without a second thought, all of his mind focused on what she could possibly mean by "we need to talk".
He felt, more than heard, the return message, equally simple, and checked it quickly before plugging it into the wall and letting it rest on the floor.
And things had. Become difficult, that is. They weren't able to see each other as much, what with her mother being terribly sick in the hospital. Almost all her waking hours not in school were spent sitting at her mother's bedside. And he understood. He really did. He recalled his grandfather's fight with cancer, remembered the long hours spent in the hospital waiting room while his father sat next to his grandfather, head often hung down with his palms on his forehead.
He understood why they weren't seeing each other as much. But he hadn't thought things were getting that bad that fast, for her to say it.
Still. She had said those four words. And now he was afraid. He felt his chest tighten up and his hands numbing, his eyes misting over and his knees caving, felt his bed conform to his body and heard the springs groan in protest to the sudden pressure placed upon them. The sound of the metal straining shook him from his shaken stupor. His fingers moved of their own accord, the reply typed out quickly and concisely, a simple "goodnight" and "i love you", sent off without a second thought, all of his mind focused on what she could possibly mean by "we need to talk".
He felt, more than heard, the return message, equally simple, and checked it quickly before plugging it into the wall and letting it rest on the floor.
10 October 2010
She looked at the empty space next to her, quietly running through a mental list of the places he would probably be. Every time he wasn't asleep next to her in the morning, it was because he had done something incredibly stupid and harmful the night before, usually to himself, but sometimes to others as well. It just so happened that he also went to the same handful of places to do these things, something she was lucky to find after the sixth time she had awoken to the cold of the Canadian mornings without his perpetual warmth to heat her through and through.
05 October 2010
The door slammed loudly behin him as he stalked out, the gravel rough and cold beneath his bare feet. He was no longer sure what was going on, his mind in a thousand pieces and his body moving on its own, his hands bare fists, the knuckles bone-white and straining. He barely registered the wall in his vision before he was right before it, his fists swinging back and forth in a frenzy of release, his breath coming ragged in seconds, his skin splitting and the blood flowing free. After his mind registered the cracking of his bone on the cold, hard brick, he fell to his knees and cradled his hands, his body shaking uncontrollably as his shoulders heaved and his ragged breathing became ragged sobbing. He threw his head back and screamed at the top of his lungs at the night sky, longer and louder than he even thought possible, until his voice cut out and he began breathing again, repeating the process several times until his fell to one side, curled around his bloodied hands, and the darkness closed in.
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