Re: Mafia: The Last Resort [D5: Fire and Water]
11-12-2011, 01:11 AM
The final candle is lit. As soon as Sanzh steps back from the engraved triangle a faint noise is heard, and all sound drops away as those present strain to hear it. It resembles something like the wind, only muffled and far away.
It is only as the sound increases that the guests realise they are screams: the wails of the tortured, the dying and those in unending pain. The noise quickly rises, soon becoming unbearable. People clutch at their ears and fall to their knees, but this is a noise that sings through their very bones and blood.
For those who were still paying attention, a maroon fog was gathering over the candles. Hands, feet, faces and eyes formed in the fog at its edges only to disperse again. Those who were lucky enough to have a mouth (for however brief an amount of time) would use it to add to the screams.
Suddenly, the screams began to quieten. In the same instant the fog slipped forward and slid to the floor by the candles, where it began to take on a definite shape. The legs formed first, kneeling in the floor, followed by the upper parts of the body in turn. The face was last, but the head hung towards the ground and their identity remained a mystery for now.
And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the screams ended with a single gust of wind blowing through the hall. The red fog was stripped away, revealing one scarred and trembling man in the tatters of a suit. The candles blew out.
A few tendrils of red fog snaked off into some dark corner, but for all intents and purposes it was gone. There was no sign that anything had happened other than the stranger on the floor.
A few step closer to view him better, but they halt as he rises into a sitting position. His trembling hands run over his face, his arms, even resting on his chest to feel his heartbeat, before he raises his piercing gaze to the others in the room.
Everyone recoils.
It's Pinary, it seems, but not as they remember him. His eyes are sunken, his skin gaunt. Brands and scars litter his skin like graffiti but worse than that, worse than his emaciated limbs or his still bleeding wounds, is the look of absolute terror and hopelessness on his face. The change from the quiet but pleasant man of a day or two ago is utterly unnerving.
âIs this real?â
No one is brave or clear-headed enough to respond for a few seconds. His voice is broken and rasping, and it's almost as shocking to hear as is to look at him.
âYes,â someone says. âYou're back.â
Pinary has returned from the realm of the dead.
It is only as the sound increases that the guests realise they are screams: the wails of the tortured, the dying and those in unending pain. The noise quickly rises, soon becoming unbearable. People clutch at their ears and fall to their knees, but this is a noise that sings through their very bones and blood.
For those who were still paying attention, a maroon fog was gathering over the candles. Hands, feet, faces and eyes formed in the fog at its edges only to disperse again. Those who were lucky enough to have a mouth (for however brief an amount of time) would use it to add to the screams.
Suddenly, the screams began to quieten. In the same instant the fog slipped forward and slid to the floor by the candles, where it began to take on a definite shape. The legs formed first, kneeling in the floor, followed by the upper parts of the body in turn. The face was last, but the head hung towards the ground and their identity remained a mystery for now.
And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the screams ended with a single gust of wind blowing through the hall. The red fog was stripped away, revealing one scarred and trembling man in the tatters of a suit. The candles blew out.
A few tendrils of red fog snaked off into some dark corner, but for all intents and purposes it was gone. There was no sign that anything had happened other than the stranger on the floor.
A few step closer to view him better, but they halt as he rises into a sitting position. His trembling hands run over his face, his arms, even resting on his chest to feel his heartbeat, before he raises his piercing gaze to the others in the room.
Everyone recoils.
It's Pinary, it seems, but not as they remember him. His eyes are sunken, his skin gaunt. Brands and scars litter his skin like graffiti but worse than that, worse than his emaciated limbs or his still bleeding wounds, is the look of absolute terror and hopelessness on his face. The change from the quiet but pleasant man of a day or two ago is utterly unnerving.
âIs this real?â
No one is brave or clear-headed enough to respond for a few seconds. His voice is broken and rasping, and it's almost as shocking to hear as is to look at him.
âYes,â someone says. âYou're back.â
Pinary has returned from the realm of the dead.