Re: Vendetta [S!2 Round 2 ~ So
01-15-2013, 12:52 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Flummox.
[color=#99z8rz]The vision emerged from the blackness, split and coalesced, surfacing from the pain which had suddenly, quickly, and completely vanished. The earth was cracked, dry. He found himself staring down a crevice in which a thousand ants swarmed. The wind blew dust over his body and flapped his tattered clothes.
He pushed himself up. No, he didn’t. He tried again, pulling his arms under his body. No, he didn’t do that either. He had no arms. That was a problem. He rolled over. The sun seared into his eyes, bright, bright. Soon he made out the endless, cloudless blue sky. A dark shape, a vulture, tore at something near his arm. No, not near his arm. He didn’t have arms. Near his shoulder, then. He smelled rotting and burnt flesh.
It took him a while to remember that he could reform his body any way he wished. He grew arms and pushed himself up to a standing position. Tentatively, he reached out and petted the vulture on the top of its head. It bit him between his thumb and forefinger. Ouch. He crushed its skull. Oops. He inspected himself. There was dirt under every fingernail and caked in every wrinkle. He tried to wash himself with vulture blood. That didn’t go over well and he ended up with two bloody arms and a bloodstained, ragged shirt.
There was a town far on the horizon. Towns meant people. Humans. Was that good or bad? Couldn’t decide. Humans had killed Tolgurd. They had tried to kill him too. But there was Johnny, and Artemis, and they had been kind to him… no. They had not. They had betrayed him, he remembered now. Left him in his hour of need. Abandoned him to be tortured.
He picked up a rock. Tossed it from hand to hand. Then he clenched it in his fist. It would give his punches clout, weight, sturdiness. He picked up another rock, placed it solidly in the center of his chest. Put another in his other hand. He set off towards the town, one thought swimming through his head.
Revenge.
He walked determinedly. Reduced to a fraction of his former height by loss of mass, loss of hands, barely three feet tall. The remains of his suit dragged along the ground, ridiculously long compared to his now stumpy legs. But he trudged along, eye fixed on the town in the distance.
A great wooden sign marked the entrance to the town. Welcome to Soñaire. He threw a rock through it, leaving a jagged, splintered hole. He knew he was not welcome here. He wasn’t welcome anywhere. The storefronts stared at him, a stranger. He threw a rock through the one window that wasn’t already broken and picked up two more rocks.
“Johnnyyyy!” He cocked his arm back, ready to throw a rock at the first sign of that traitor’s head peeking around a door. There was nothing. He waited. Nothing. It seemed Johnny Raptor was wise to his plans. Or maybe he just didn’t hear. He shrugged, a human gesture that he had learned recently and had taken quite a liking to. Perhaps he should feign trust, friendship, forgiveness for a little while. Stab that turncoat in the back. A reciprocal betrayal. He quite liked that idea; he had no concept of irony, but that seemed somehow fitting.
He stumped towards one building, a general store by the look of it – he couldn’t read the sign over the door; it was a word he didn’t know – and kicked the door. It fell off its hinges with no further persuasion. It had probably been waiting to do that for years. He looked around. Dust was falling from the ceiling. It was dark in here, the only light coming from the holes in the roof, but he could see well enough to know that he was alone in the building.
He walked forward and tripped over a sack of flour. The rock fell out of his hand and clattered away, rolling under a stack of potato sacks with undoubtedly rotten potatoes. There was no way he was getting that back. He pulled a hammer off the wall. It seemed like a good enough weapon, and he hefted it. The head fell off. He started to put it back but stopped when he found that there was already another hammer there. Shrugging, he let the shaft drop to the floor.
He was about to walk out but noticed that the door was back the way he had found it. The door he had kicked down was still there. He shrugged again and kicked it down again, this time to the outside. The sun caught him by surprise again, after his eyes had begun to get adjusted to the darkness. He walked outside and brushed some dust and wood splinters off his coat.
The window he had thrown a rock through was whole again. So was the signpost, though still battered, weather-beaten, and faded. Both were missing his signature rock-shaped holes. It was beginning to get on his nerves (though he had none, in a physical sense). Could he destroy nothing in this miserable place?
He heard voices coming from the building opposite and shied away. He wished not to encounter anyone at this moment. Stumping down the street, pressed against the side of the road opposite the voices, he began to throw rocks periodically, through windows and at walls, trying to see if he could break something. Always they regenerated, mysteriously, when he wasn’t looking.
There was laughter surprisingly close behind him and he jumped, running to the other side of the street. Bubbles flowed out of an open window. The buildings began to look less run-down and more like people had been living in them not too long ago. A line of laundry billowed in the wind. The air became cooler and the sun less intense. An old man in a rocking chair on someone’s porch winked and nodded in his direction, making a smoke ring in his pipe. Did he wink? It was hard to tell, he was squinting that hard. Felgurd wished fervently for his hat back, so he could pull it over his face and people wouldn’t be able to see him. It was odd that the old man didn’t scream or anything, though that was probably because he was going senile. Once an actual person of sound mind saw him, he’d have to make his exit.
A cool breeze whipped up Felgurd’s coat. It smelled like the sea. He shook his head, perplexed. It was impossible to imagine that there would be any large body of water out here. It’d been so long since he’d seen the ocean, though, and he almost wished it were true.
A group of laughing children ran past him. It seemed as though they had materialized out of thin air. Felgurd spun around quickly, hoping to hide his face and body behind the remnants of his jacket. Perhaps he could look like some kind of demented dwarf instead of the monster that he was. But the children seemed not to notice. They said nothing and kept running. What was this place?
Up ahead, there was a Latin American square adobe house, smoke curling out of a hole in its roof. Climbing infinitely into the sky was a spiral tower, shimmering and glassy.
Felgurd had an odd thought, a human expression that was used to describe things like this. This is the stuff of dreams. He had no idea how right he was.
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[color=#99z8rz]The vision emerged from the blackness, split and coalesced, surfacing from the pain which had suddenly, quickly, and completely vanished. The earth was cracked, dry. He found himself staring down a crevice in which a thousand ants swarmed. The wind blew dust over his body and flapped his tattered clothes.
He pushed himself up. No, he didn’t. He tried again, pulling his arms under his body. No, he didn’t do that either. He had no arms. That was a problem. He rolled over. The sun seared into his eyes, bright, bright. Soon he made out the endless, cloudless blue sky. A dark shape, a vulture, tore at something near his arm. No, not near his arm. He didn’t have arms. Near his shoulder, then. He smelled rotting and burnt flesh.
It took him a while to remember that he could reform his body any way he wished. He grew arms and pushed himself up to a standing position. Tentatively, he reached out and petted the vulture on the top of its head. It bit him between his thumb and forefinger. Ouch. He crushed its skull. Oops. He inspected himself. There was dirt under every fingernail and caked in every wrinkle. He tried to wash himself with vulture blood. That didn’t go over well and he ended up with two bloody arms and a bloodstained, ragged shirt.
There was a town far on the horizon. Towns meant people. Humans. Was that good or bad? Couldn’t decide. Humans had killed Tolgurd. They had tried to kill him too. But there was Johnny, and Artemis, and they had been kind to him… no. They had not. They had betrayed him, he remembered now. Left him in his hour of need. Abandoned him to be tortured.
He picked up a rock. Tossed it from hand to hand. Then he clenched it in his fist. It would give his punches clout, weight, sturdiness. He picked up another rock, placed it solidly in the center of his chest. Put another in his other hand. He set off towards the town, one thought swimming through his head.
Revenge.
He walked determinedly. Reduced to a fraction of his former height by loss of mass, loss of hands, barely three feet tall. The remains of his suit dragged along the ground, ridiculously long compared to his now stumpy legs. But he trudged along, eye fixed on the town in the distance.
A great wooden sign marked the entrance to the town. Welcome to Soñaire. He threw a rock through it, leaving a jagged, splintered hole. He knew he was not welcome here. He wasn’t welcome anywhere. The storefronts stared at him, a stranger. He threw a rock through the one window that wasn’t already broken and picked up two more rocks.
“Johnnyyyy!” He cocked his arm back, ready to throw a rock at the first sign of that traitor’s head peeking around a door. There was nothing. He waited. Nothing. It seemed Johnny Raptor was wise to his plans. Or maybe he just didn’t hear. He shrugged, a human gesture that he had learned recently and had taken quite a liking to. Perhaps he should feign trust, friendship, forgiveness for a little while. Stab that turncoat in the back. A reciprocal betrayal. He quite liked that idea; he had no concept of irony, but that seemed somehow fitting.
He stumped towards one building, a general store by the look of it – he couldn’t read the sign over the door; it was a word he didn’t know – and kicked the door. It fell off its hinges with no further persuasion. It had probably been waiting to do that for years. He looked around. Dust was falling from the ceiling. It was dark in here, the only light coming from the holes in the roof, but he could see well enough to know that he was alone in the building.
He walked forward and tripped over a sack of flour. The rock fell out of his hand and clattered away, rolling under a stack of potato sacks with undoubtedly rotten potatoes. There was no way he was getting that back. He pulled a hammer off the wall. It seemed like a good enough weapon, and he hefted it. The head fell off. He started to put it back but stopped when he found that there was already another hammer there. Shrugging, he let the shaft drop to the floor.
He was about to walk out but noticed that the door was back the way he had found it. The door he had kicked down was still there. He shrugged again and kicked it down again, this time to the outside. The sun caught him by surprise again, after his eyes had begun to get adjusted to the darkness. He walked outside and brushed some dust and wood splinters off his coat.
The window he had thrown a rock through was whole again. So was the signpost, though still battered, weather-beaten, and faded. Both were missing his signature rock-shaped holes. It was beginning to get on his nerves (though he had none, in a physical sense). Could he destroy nothing in this miserable place?
He heard voices coming from the building opposite and shied away. He wished not to encounter anyone at this moment. Stumping down the street, pressed against the side of the road opposite the voices, he began to throw rocks periodically, through windows and at walls, trying to see if he could break something. Always they regenerated, mysteriously, when he wasn’t looking.
There was laughter surprisingly close behind him and he jumped, running to the other side of the street. Bubbles flowed out of an open window. The buildings began to look less run-down and more like people had been living in them not too long ago. A line of laundry billowed in the wind. The air became cooler and the sun less intense. An old man in a rocking chair on someone’s porch winked and nodded in his direction, making a smoke ring in his pipe. Did he wink? It was hard to tell, he was squinting that hard. Felgurd wished fervently for his hat back, so he could pull it over his face and people wouldn’t be able to see him. It was odd that the old man didn’t scream or anything, though that was probably because he was going senile. Once an actual person of sound mind saw him, he’d have to make his exit.
A cool breeze whipped up Felgurd’s coat. It smelled like the sea. He shook his head, perplexed. It was impossible to imagine that there would be any large body of water out here. It’d been so long since he’d seen the ocean, though, and he almost wished it were true.
A group of laughing children ran past him. It seemed as though they had materialized out of thin air. Felgurd spun around quickly, hoping to hide his face and body behind the remnants of his jacket. Perhaps he could look like some kind of demented dwarf instead of the monster that he was. But the children seemed not to notice. They said nothing and kept running. What was this place?
Up ahead, there was a Latin American square adobe house, smoke curling out of a hole in its roof. Climbing infinitely into the sky was a spiral tower, shimmering and glassy.
Felgurd had an odd thought, a human expression that was used to describe things like this. This is the stuff of dreams. He had no idea how right he was.
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