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Post by PERDITA CASTLEBON on May 24, 2011 23:31:40 GMT 1
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background-image:url(http://i51.tinypic.com/2nbr3oi.jpg) ] with your halo slipping down atrocious stories now you stand reborn before us all - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
NOVEMBER 22, 2008
She knew that she shouldn't be taking the time for a sight seeing side trip such as this. It was only a few days time until the first night of the full moon and she had not yet secured herself a haven for the three night's duration that she would need to have herself locked securely away from anyone that she might hurt. This was not one of the towns normally on her route of world travel. She did not have a hold prepared; be it the an abandoned basement in a warehouse district, an actual dungeon in an old castle or monastery, or a cavern with walls thick and deep enough for her to secure the chains of silver worked steel that rested in the saddle bags of her motorcycle. Perdita had learned quite a few tricks over the hundreds of years that she had suffered with her curse when it came to keeping herself contained. When she was in a place long enough, the haven would be secured with silver coated doors and hallways, making it more painful to risk escape than frustrating to stay within for the beast.
Of course she was not always capable of making such a sturdy haven; at one point she'd had to resort to paying off a worker of a silver mine to collapse a dead end tunnel while she was trapped inside, to be rescued several day's afterwards. She did what she had to, to protect the world from herself. Which made it all the more unreasonable for her to be making this venture.
Yet here she was.
St. Peter's Catholic Church had stood the test of time well. It was one of the first that had been built, officially affirmed and blessed by the Roman Catholic Pope himself over a hundred year's ago. It should have held no special significance to her. She had never served here, she had fled from her duties to the Catholic Church and its ferver hundreds of years before this place had been built. She had not watched a baptism of a loved one, or observed the last rites of a beloved friend here. It was, or should have been... just another church.
Even the Saint to whom the sanctuary was sanctioned held no particular significance to her. St. Peter, the so called Prince of the Apostles, one of the most well known martyrs of the ages, suffering his death at the hands of the Romans with grace bequeathed of his love for the son of God, begging to be crucified upside down, finding himself not worthy of sharing the same death as his lord and Master.... He was the Saint of craftsmen, of bakers and builders, of cobblers and fisherman, of the papacy and the holy seat of the Pope himself.... but not of anything that she had ever been or ever would be.
And yet, still, here she was.
She had not even known that the church would be on her route as she traveled through another city with another name, another day and another hundred miles behind her. She was not fervent or faithful enough any more to mark each church, every sanctuary, cathedral and monastery as she once might have. It was just another building. Beautiful, perhaps; with its crafted spires and is thick masonry walls and the intricate and gilded windows that shone like glass as the last of the day's sunlight wavered through them, lighting the pews and the aisles with gem hued light. Candles glittered, flickering with the airy drafts that such cathedrals always had, no matter how well secured the windows and doors were, and the scent of patchoulli and heated wax washed over her all too familiar as she passed through the double doors that were propped open by small triangles of wood, granting any that would enter permission to step into the church.
How long had it been since she had stood in a church? How long since she had dipped her fingertips into the basin of holy water at the entrance and made the motion of a cross to bless herself, and fortify herself against the sins of man and flesh?
She did not do these things now, but she could not help but wonder. A hundred years? Perhaps less, perhaps more... she lost track of time so easily. She felt her eyes drift close as she stood at the front of the church in front of the large wooden and brass crucifix. So much that was familiar, and yet where was the comfort in it? Where was the sense of protection and strength that should have filled her, once a tempered and forged and faithful servant and soldier of this God?
Gone. Fled, from her, as she had fled, abandoning her vows and her faith, abandoning the Church of Man that had tainted what should have been pure, and blessed, twisting it into something for it's own devises. She shouldn't be here. She no longer belonged here, in this temple, in this once holy place. So why was she?
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JAXON FLEETER
Bethmoora Clan
Sounds like check mate to me!
Posts: 43
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Post by JAXON FLEETER on May 25, 2011 19:48:13 GMT 1
here kitty kitty, now dont be shy feel me in the inside of the, faintest trace of sound [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,10,true][atrb=style,background-image: url('http://i53.tinypic.com/wb98wn.jpg');,true] THE DARKNESS AROUND
Grey and cloudy, as all such places are, the bitter streets were not looking their best. A light rain was beginning to fall; the concrete darkened to a muddy dull iron and the thin wind snapped at the ankles of passers-by. The noise of traffic was as dull as the weather, a continuous mutter at the edge of hearing. Apart from that, there was no other sound.
Jaxon pulled his coat closer around him, looking down at the vermin that past him with lusting awe or curiosity, his looks sometimes had that effect. Like moths caught in an amber light, they were transfixed, but always that light will burn. The weight of the sky pressed him down to the ground as he hurried along, his bones now aching. He’d been busy these last few days, seeing contracts to be executed, having his knee dislocated by a stupid oaf of a giant, he was wearing down a bit. However this didn’t freeze his skeleton to move as quick as he wanted, and he walked fast, too fast to avoid drawing attention to himself as he wound her way through the cluttered streets. Houses loomed close on each other, but there was hardly anyone else in sight - the rain and listless weather was keeping everyone indoors. Either that, or this was a ghost town; she was on the very edge of the Wasteland, or so it felt. But a tall building attracted him, a church of promises. A slender finger dipped momentarily into the bowl at the entrance. The clear water sparkled like a liquidised form of clear quartz, and the enchanted substance meet the forehead of Jaxon, then to his stomach, left shoulder, finishing with his right. Instead of the Fathers verse to escape his lips, only a Cheshire cat like smile crept to grace itself on his face, curling to the far corners of his features like the gargoyles that watched from their perches above. Bless me father for I have sinned… The cathedral windows glistened with sunlight that could not have existed at this hour of the night. He frowned, stepping cautiously into the singular room of the stony entrance, observing the distorted scenes portrayed in the colourful stained glass that lined the panes of the archway windows. His ears, slightly pointed at the tip perked up with the sound of echoing voices, some angelic and rhythmed into a haunting sequence of notes that pierced his heart. The lore of such a holy factor was appealing, yet also strangely uncomfortable. Jaxon cradled the thought of being the demon, but if sins were to be repaid in Hell, he sure was going to be at the end of the whip. Torture in the eyes of the beholder was as picturesque as the form of a woman’s body, each mound of exploration inviting for different fantasies and techniques. An assassin was contracted to kill. Jaxon was an assassin, but having a past laced with grotesque memories and mental scars, was it any wonder why the elf had the twisted mind he had? Being the reaper was more to him then gaining money to survive in the mundane world, in which his King planted him in, but taking of the life was a precious as making life. The world has a natural balance, and Jaxon was the shadows that symbolised death. He was as lethal and impish as any leading demon. He often wondered if he was in fact one, and not the species of weak, mindless elves that made his given race. Even with the delicate trail of velvet like smoke that gathered a following to drift here and there from his body, his presence didn’t cause any disturbance. Didn’t evil blow up in churches? Wasn’t it a haven for people who wish to be away from enticement and sins? Finally he reached the mother Mary at the end and bowed, seemly to see if such a statue held power, while faint whispers of god came from his mouth. Her skin glowed oddly in the dirty light; her hair had a very strange hue given the effect the stained windows were having. It was a good thing he didn't lift his eyes, else someone might've mistaken him for some nymph, some strange creature bowing to Mary herself. A sound pounded behind him, and in mere reflex his whole body turned in defence. A woman, glad in a mysterious coating felt short of a few paces behind him. He narrowed his eyes, questioning. She wasn’t a human, he could tell, if only by the wildness in her eyes that now glanced feverishly towards him. Standing up, he smiled, dismissing the Mary beside him, and souly went over to the creature. He suddenly grabbed her shoulder and trusted it towards him so they both were touching, heads looking away in opposite directions. He contemplated the junction between her throat and shoulder, tendons straining against skin as he unconsciously leaned his head against her hair; his lips were parted slightly as he kept himself hidden from the priest that stalked the aisle, the rest of his face veiled by a wayward raven hood. “You should not be here.” He hissed through teeth, half threatening, half concerned for her safety. Creatures were not welcomed in such a place. Not even a face as beautiful as an angels.
#### WORDS 893, TAG PERDICTA , MUSE LADY GAGA - JUDAS! |
table by california dreaming @ caution 2.0
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Post by PERDITA CASTLEBON on May 29, 2011 2:16:01 GMT 1
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background-image:url(http://i51.tinypic.com/2nbr3oi.jpg) ] with your halo slipping down atrocious stories now you stand reborn before us all - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It didn't take but a handful of heartbeats fo Perdita to realize that she was not alone in the ghostly lit cathedral; above the scent of oil and wax, stronger than the residual scent of a hundred thousand humans that had made their way through these doors and knelt to offer prayers and worship, that spoke a million hushed confessions... there was something stronger. It was bittersweet, and all too familiar, and it didn't take long to locate the source, her eyes narrowing as her nostrils flared as the man's form turned towards her, his gaze steely and narrowed themselves. His movements were unnaturally quick, though tamed enough to indicate that he was used to keeping somewhat to the masquerade of humanity. His eyes glinted, particularly so against the slick pale undertone to his skin, and the vague scent of death clung to him, but she could tell enough by the fact that he was present here, in this church, and the unfamiliar qualities to his scent that he was not a vampire.
Even still, the hair on the back of her neck rose, prickling under the mass of dark hair as he approached, her body tensing, her lips curling back somewhat from her teeth, a low growl rumbling faintly in her chest as his weight settled against her, spinning her halfway out of the aisle, but not quite taking her off of her feet. He may have been fast, but he was not the only one, and even as he settled his head against hers, his hoarsely whispered words brushing against her cheek, she had shifted her weight regaining her balance, with the quiet metallic echo of a blade drawn from its sheath as her hand tangled against his shoulder, the tip of her dagger from the small of her back pressed against his rib cage as a warning that if he should continue to press an attack all it would take would be one slice of her blade to spill his innards, or one thrust to pierce through skin and sinew to nick his heart or lungs. She did not pierce skin, yet, even now she found herself reluctant to spill blood on holy ground unless it was necessary.
Her body was stiff, coiled inwards and ready to explode outwards if he should threaten her further, but to a passer by they might merely be two long lost friends, or bereaved family members offering each other comfort at the edge of a pew, which served her well enough for the time being. She had no desire to draw further attention, she had yet to make an impression on this town, at least in more than a hundred years or so, she did not wish for the first new one to be a bad one. She could hear the rustled movement of the priest in the alcove not far from the confessional booth.
"And who, or shall I say what, are you to tell me who is and is not welcome in the house of God?" She questioned, her voice low and raspy, her head craning inwards just enough to bring his face into the peripheral of her vision from their close quarters entanglement. He smelled of death, and sweat, but she could hear his heartbeat, feel it surging beneath her fingertips that were pressed against his shoulder and collarbone. She did not know his scent, could not place it, and that in and of itself was enough to worry her, or intrigue her, or irritate her, she was not certain which would win in the end. "I see no collar that rests upon your throat to entitle you to make such mandates... Have we met in some past life where I have caused you harm, offended you?" She inquired, her gaze partially meeting his, a brow tilting upwards as she spoke her words. She could feel her own heartbeat, rapid and surging, the rush of adrenaline practically a tangible sting, rushing through her veins and muscles that trembled in carefully held tautness as she held back the instinctive reaction of shifting. "I know not what you are, or what it is that you have taken offense to, brother, but I ought to prefer not to spill blood, be it yours or mine, on sanctified ground."
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Post by THE STAFF on Jul 15, 2011 13:33:08 GMT 1
Closed on: 2011 July 15 by The Staff
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