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.

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.

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.

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.

He leaned back, his eyes clouded over as he thought about the past month. He'd been dumped, his job had ended, he'd been kicked out of school, he'd gotten a tattoo, and he'd met a girl. It wasn't the best month he'd had, but it was decent enough to not hate all of it. He smiled as he thought of how pissed he'd been at being dumped. Not like he hadn't seen it coming, he just wished it would hurt less.
He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Newports and his lighter. He carefully removed one of three remaining smokes, the body all bent and twisted yet still unbroken. He grinned, knowing that he was killing himself slowly by doing this, and placed it between his lips, opening and igniting the Zippo with practiced ease and a flick of his wrist. He inhaled deeply and opened his mouth, letting the smoke drift out slowly while it created patterns as it curled and wound its way to the ceiling. He grabbed the small pad and pen on the table next to him and made a small list for the next venture out to the store, Newports and lighter fluid on the top of the list.

He sighed and slouched deeper into his chair, his legs splayed wide, doing nothing to cover his growing erection as she sauntered up to him, covered in little more than a flimsy old t-shirt that was so old it was almost see-thru. He grabbed his coffee and took a long sip, relaxing as the warmth ran through his body. She stopped right in front of him, and stood with arms akimbo, her hip cocked to the left and her eyes glued firmly to the rather impressive tent pitched in his pajama pants. Sal smiled cockily, and with mock indifference said, "What is it you want at," he paused and looked at his watch. "What is it you want at six in the morning Sam?"

As he walked home, the depression hit him like a semi and he understood why he was so torn open by this; even though they had shared a good long time together, she had just suddenly realized that she wasn't ready for any kind of relationship, whereas he was ready for the long haul. And having that emotion suddenly cut out from under him hurt worse than anything he had ever felt in his life thus far.
He closed the gate and doors, locked up and turned out all the lights, and retired to his bedroom, looking sadly at the frozen A/C and wishing he had the cash to buy a new one already. He sighed, pulled off his Linkin Park shirt, an old gift from her, and pulled on another one, this one yellow, from the softball spring training she did in Florida this past year, another gift to him. He felt like curling up and crying right there on the floor, but managed to crawl into bed and fall into a fitful slumber.
He dreamt of her, as he had every night for the past month. This time, it wasn't a simple retelling of a previous time they had been together, but an instance of "what-if" from the future that would no longer be.

He wanted her. Bad. And all the time. Its all he could think about these days, having her, holding her, kissing her, loving her, touching her, smelling her, playing around with her, everything he could think of somehow led to her in his mind. It was driving him slowly mad, wearing down his control over himself, making him slip up in conversation, throwing his patience out the window. He wanted to see her, just her, no one else, just the two of them, alone, for the first time in a while. He was willing to do anything to get that if he could.

The Morning After

He understood why. He honestly completely did. If he had been that fucked up, he would have wanted her to leave like she had wanted him to. But that still didn't make him happy about it. He had worried the whole night, even his dreams and sleep had been restless and full of anxiety. Even waking up to her text hadn't made him feel better. In fact, he felt worse, because he really thought he should have been the one to help her home, not his new friends who had helped her instead. He was deeply upset by all this, but he wouldn't tell her ever, unless she got him drunk again, and he almost didn't want to do that either.

He sighed and grabbed a bottle of water from the floor, staring at the mess of his table and the boxes and bags scattered round the room. His hand clenched in a fist and he winced, looking down at it and wondering if he could pass it off as walking into a tree because it had been to dark to see when he had gotten home. His dad would be suspicious the next week, he was sure of it.

He growled softly and grabbed a napkin, dampened it with the water bottle and started cleaning his knuckles, careful not to utter a sound. It was seven in the morning and he was pretty much certain he was the only one awake in the house, as usual. He sighed again, and walked into his back room, which he had converted into an office for most purposes, as well as his storage for things not well received by his parents. He flipped up the light switch and headed towards the closet door in the corner, careful not to step on any of the objects tossed haphazardly everywhere. He made a mental note to pick up and clean his floor as soon as he could, and opened the closet door.

Three bottle of whiskey sat on the top shelf, each one about half empty, shot glasses upside down on the caps. He grabbed the largest bottle, stared at it for a moment and nodded to himself. He closed the closet door and walked back out to his bedroom, placed the bottle next to his bed and grabbed a towel, the sudden need to scrub off all of last night washing over him like a wave.

He no longer wanted to remember it, the joint, the beer, the fear, the pain, the crying and vomiting and worst of all the anger. All the anger and rage he had felt half the night, at himself, at his friends, at his girl, at everyone and everything until everything had gone red and he had punched a tree so he didn't do something else he would regret later, and he had bled and she had found out, her hands rubbing his and her voice hurt and he was on the ground staring at the stars, and then he was face to face with her and he just wanted to break down and cry and hold her forever, but he couldn't because she didn't want him to see her like this and he didn't want her to see him like this and the anger welled up again, this time tasting like acid and beer, and he swallowed it back down, not wanting her to be upset or grossed out or anything. He pulled his hand out from under hers and played with her hair as they lay back and talked and she became more and more beautiful as she talked and he found himself wishing this never had to end.

And then she had to talk to people, more people, people he did and didn't know, and people he did and didn't like, and he was walking with her oldest friend and her friend was praising him and saying how he thought they were amazing together and how he had talked to her and that he thought he should stay because she needed him right now, even if she said leave. And she did, many times, after first telling him to stay and he had told her it would be alright and he would stay for now, and then explaining how she really never wanted him to see her like this ever, and he was hurt. Hurt because she wanted to hide from him this side of her, but...he kind of liked this side, it was crazy and wild, like she usually was, but on a more extreme level of it, and he really liked that.

But she kept telling him to leave, that she didn't want him to see her like this, like a broken record, and then she had her friends escort him home, god knows why, he was actually sober at this point, not even a drop of wooziness and tipsyness left in him, and he was upset. Why should HE leave? He was the only one not messed up in the slightest right now, and her making him leave pissed him off. It pissed him off a lot. And it worried him, making him anxious, jittery, his mind going even faster now than it had before when he raged out, thousands of miles a second, all focused on her and how he wasn't sure what would happen, and he was scared, so very scared, terrified even, but all of this fear lay under so much anger right now, and he wasn't sure what to do anymore, so he called home to leave the door unlocked, and he walked home with his new friends, talking about the night and their emotions, and they put him at momentary ease. He went inside, locked the door and made sure they went the right way back to the girls, his anxiety back in full swing once they were gone.

He leaned against the cold brick wall and slid down, the rough edges catching his shirt and dragging it up until he just shrugged it off. When his rump hit the floor, he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and opened it, his chilled hand fumbling around for the last one as he grabs the pack of matches in his other pocket.
"Last one," he whispers to himself, making a mental note to get more later tonight. With a sigh he puts it between his lips and strikes a match, curling his free hand protectively over the end as he pulls the match closer and inhales deeply, drawing in the flame and igniting the tobacco within. He lets the breath out slowly, reveling in the taste and smoke drifting from his mouth, his eyes closed in silent, almost pained bliss.
He knew he would have to shower out here and wash off all the smell of smoke and death from himself if he didn't want to upset her though. She hated smoking, thought it was vile and disgusting, a terrible habit pursued only by the worst kind of people. She had made him promise to quit and never do it again, and like a fool, he had said he would. He even tried and managed it for a while too, almost a three years.
Then had come college, and the stress of finals week every semester. He would break down, go through drinking binges and days where he couldn't sleep no matter what he did. Finally he just bit the bullet and bought a pack, sat down outside the dorm and began smoking them, one my one, half the pack in an hour...and he felt instantly better, the stress leaving him with each cloud of smoke.
Of course, then the shame had hit him; shame at breaking his promise, shame at his going through half the pack in an hour, shame at what he would say when she asked how he was next they spoke, at how he would lie and say he was alright, that he wasn't going to fail any classes and he had taken up boxing to destress himself (the gym never had punching bags, clearly a blatant lie if she ever came down to see the school), and that he couldn't wait to see her, the only true statement, because he missed her so badly and wanted to be with her, the second true statement.
He had tried to quit once he got home, thrown out all his packs of Broncos and Malboros and Camels, broken his lighters open and cut all his matches. It had almost worked. Until his dad got sick. Real sick.

She looks over at the space next to her, untouched and as pristine as it was this morning. She heaves a sigh, and her gaze goes to the window looking over the back of the house and the better half of their property. Her lips twist in a look of worry and she slips out of bed, walking silently to the window, her nightgown a gorgeous silver in the moonlight. She peers through the glass and see him, his eyes screwed shit and his fists swinging back and forth into the wall again and again. Her eyes shift to the barrel next to the wall and she decides to make the necessary preparations for him to bandage himself so as to let him believe he has kept her in the dark. She walks over to the closet and grabs a fresh length of linen bandaging, cutting it thin enough to be wrapped comfortably around each knuckle and digit. Then she goes over to the sink, and fills a small bowl with cold, clean water. She knows that by the time he comes back in, it will be warmer and more soothing to the raw and sometimes ragged looking flesh. She pulls out a few herbal ingredients and a places them in a second, smaller bowl, calling upon her medical knowledge to at least grab the proper ingredients to make an ointment for his hands. She'll give him the pleasure of pounding out the plants himself, hopefully another release from his tension and frustration.
She stops moving and rustling under the sink when the sound of his hands pounding into the wall cease. She swiftly and quietly makes her way over to the window and peeks out again. Hes staring at his hands, his face neither happy nor upset. He walks to the barrel and plunges his hands into it, his jaw clenched and his eyes squinted in the burn the icy water gives to his wounds.
She shakes her head again and lines everything up on the window sill for him before making her way back into the bed, and looks again to the space next to her, untouched and pristine.

Its not the first time he's let her sleep when he's still near, or in, a pent up rage. He'll never tell her, but its the main reason his knuckles end up bloody and raw. Its on nights like this one, when he refuses to tell her hes close to losing it so she can get the sleep she so deeply needs, that he goes out back and beats the brick walls like the bodies of so many enemies before him, until they buckle under the rain of blows and his hands are as heavy as lead, and as red as the sunset. He holds back the cries of anger and frustration, hoping not to alert her to his actions, glad she has never caught him doing this. He knows that if she ever realizes the reason behind his damaged hands, she won't be happy and might blame herself. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, the vivid imagination he possesses turning the wall into wave after wave of zombie hordes, reveling in the satisfying thump of his fist on the wall as his mind sees another zombie's skull crushed inward, flesh on flesh and the brunching of bone. He's smiling now, even as his hands drip blood. He pulls his fist back again, the wall now a hound of hell. His smile widens; he enjoyed fighting these the most in the war with Hell, something primal in him soothed as he has dominated more and more of these savage, slavering beasts. He strikes the wall again and again, his hands more and more beaten and bloodied, until he is out of breath. He stands straight and tall, breath like a bellows, his eyes now open and staring at his knuckles.
"Shit" is all he can muster before the pain sets in and he doubles over as he tries not to cry out even a little. His hands are like fire, the cold blue fire of war razing cities and destroying everything in its path. He walks over to the barrel next to the wall and dunks his hands in, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, the cold of the water painful at first, before it dulls the burning of his hands to a faint throbbing and he pulls them out to inspect the damage this time.
They're not as bad as the last time, of this he is certain. This time, he can bend them and make a fist. He shakes his shaggy head and walks inside, making a mental list of the supplies he'll need to bandage his hands properly. He looks at the wall before shutting the door; the red brick betrays nothing of his evenings events. He considers it a small consolation to his hands, and smiles a little before shutting the door.

Keith looked around, his vision blurred by the tears his burning eyes couldn't contain and his head pounding from the hit he had taken as the house had finally collapsed around them. The fire still raged around him, and the angry crackling roared within his ears. He tried to move, stopping to scream as the motion cause his head to spin even more from the pain. He looked down at his legs, paling at the large spar of wood lodged in his right calf. It sat half buried in the ground, the blood already dried around the ragged looking edges; Keith curled into himself, willing down the bile that had tried to force its way out of him.

After several minutes of whimpering in pain and searching his singed coat for his cell, he looked around once more, trying to find his voice and shout for Kayleen. He knew that no one was coming to save them or stop the fire, nothing formalized such as police or firefighters had been around since the Great War. He weighed his options carefully, knowing full well that what he decided to do in the next few moments would be the only thing that could be done for several hours.

He thrust his hands roughly into his pockets, searching frantically for the necessary implements to make his plan work right, stopping the sharp movements the second his leg was jostled, the pain immense, his breath from calm to ragged in an instant. He screwed his eyes shut and ground his teeth, searching slower but with just as much frantic intent. He grinned a little when he felt his hand close around the cool ivory of his knife's handle, and pulled it out swiftly.

He looked at the silver blade, watched the light from the fire dance o'er the metal mesmerizingly, and for a moment debated the merits of his plan before driving the knife into his arm just before the elbow and dragging it swiftly through his flesh until it hit his wrist. As bone met blade, he yanked the knife from his arm and thrust it into a clean patch of dirt close by. Keith closed his eyes and bit back another scream before taking two fingers and wiping the blood onto them, scrawling out a circle and the markings to perform a summons on the ground around the knife, his arm stretched as far as possible without shifting his lower half.

He looked at his arm, watched the blood pour from the gaping wound, felt his head spin and clapped his hands together, tried his damnedest to not pass out yet. He knew he had just seconds before he'd pass out from blood loss, was actually surprised he'd lasted this long with that much blood pooled beneath his leg and arm. He thought on that no longer and slammed his hands into the circle's center, and spat out a single word.

"Karnak."

Keith, reworked version 4, random scene

His chair clattered as he jerked himself up, his face red from shouting. "Goddammit Kayleen, I feel weak because I feel like I could lose you since I'm not around because I'm on the job all the time, even though I want to be home with you, and I'm afraid you'll realize how selfish I am by trying to keep you all to myself. And if I could make you mine forever I would, but you aren't ready for that commitment and god-FUCKing-dammit, I'm to afraid to ask you 'will you marry me'!" With that he fell back into his chair, deflated and dejected, his face in his hands and red as he noticed what slipped out of his lips. Keith felt his heart beating like he had just run three marathons as he waited for her to respond to his outburst and final words, praying to the gods she didn't leave him now.

Kayleen had listened in stunned silence to Keith as he had boiled over and exploded at her, awed at the fact he finally had the gall to speak his mind to her in full. In all honesty, it almost turned her on.Man never took the lead, now he controlled the entire situation...until she heard his last line. Her eyes widened, and a faint blush crept up as her mouth twisted in a crooked smile. She stared at the man in the chair before her, new respect growing in her heart for him.

Sure, she was slightly irked he actually yelled at her, and also a little frightened he might snap soon. Yet, what really scared her right now was the prospect that, if she somehow hurt him even the slightest bit more, Keith might not be able to handle it and just leave. That really shook her; Keith may very well be the strongest freelancer in the world, but she, Kayleen, held sway over him. The next few words she uttered could, and would, have a profound effect on him.

Her heart pounded as Keith's last words burned in her memory. He wanted to marry her. Keith wanted to marry her. HER. MARRY. That alone was almost to much for her. She crouched down and looked at his downturned face, before pulling him into a tight embrace. She felt horrible for not noticing that he was so pent up before baiting him like she had. Her lips gently brushed his face as she planted light kisses everywhere she could.

"Did you mean what you said," she whispered into his ear at last, her voice earnest and hopeful. Yes, the idea scared her, but suddenly, looking at it with Keith by her, she wasn't as afraid to move onto it.

A surprised yes escaped his lips before her could think, and his hands riffled through his pockets, suddenly searching for that small, red velvet box, his body and mind reacting before he could think about it.

Kayleen smoothly pushed off him to stand up, folding her arms in front of herself. She looked Keith in the eyes and arched her brows, hoping that the act did not belie her emotions. With false courage she spoke up. "Then say it properly this time."

Keith stared, slack-jawed. Twenty minutes ago this girl had been afraid of him ever asking that fated question and now she wanted him to ask it, almost demanded that he do so? He hadn't prepared for this to happen, being asked to on the spot so suddenly. Shaking, he dropped to one knee.

"Kayleen, I...Leenie, I've known you and courted you for three years now, and as such, I have learned many things about you. I've learned that you love to have control in the outside world but melt when I take the lead in bed. I've learned that you look simply stunning in a skirt, and that you look even better in your underwear. I've learned that you are secretly afraid of ending up alone and that darkness reminds you of that. And I've learned many other things, some useful and practical, like your hatred of peppers and shrimp, or how you love puppies, others mostly just useless trivia, like how you sing in the shower at two in the morning and that you can only eat your food certain ways. But most importantly love, I've learned that I truly love you, and I want to be with you through everything from now on. I don't want to give you up, let you down, run around and desert you, never make you cry, never say good-bye, and never ever tell a lie and hurt you." At this, Kieth pulled the red velvet box from his pocket and opened it, revealing the contents to her. "Kayleen Hollie, will you marry me?"

Keith, reworked version 4, part 2

Like all of the men sitting in the clearing before him, Keith had a few select tools of his trade. He crouched down in the soft dirt and took off his jacket; it was both to expensive and pretty for him to even begin thinking about wearing into work. It just happened to have enough pockets for all his tools and was stylishly badass.

His hands work their way into all the pockets, drawing out various items or leaving the compartments after a brief search. Out came a small silver knife, a vial of purple liquid, some crumpled notes, and a length of linen clothe bandaging

Keith, reworked version 4, part 1

Keith looked around at the small clearing before him, at least fifty men, each of them well-trained and armed with specialized weapons. The assorted crew standing around bore members from every big name Retrieval Guild in the country, and a few up-and-coming guilds as well.

He recognized a few of the men and even a couple of the Guild Insignias on their clothing and armour, but nothing special really came to mind. This was a job and a good paycheck, nothing more. No emotions could even begin to interfere with this. One moment of doubt or remorse would spell the end for him, the guilt that might tear through him much less painful than swords, bullets and knives that would follow.

Like many of the men who shared his profession, Keith had learned how to drown out everything but the adrenaline from such encounters. Whether it was to drink oneself into oblivion after or before the job, ritual bloodletting, writing (at this Keith grins and thinks *stupid faggy bastards*), or lots of rampant sex, there was always a way to get over the emotions.

For Keith, it was the trusty iPod in his pocket and his overly expensive headphones blaring his favorite, high-octane songs while he delivered wholesale slaughter to those in his way on any retrieval operation.