Re: The Relentless Slaughter [Round 1: Untitled-1]
05-24-2011, 08:54 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.
Pain, not death, is the goal of life. Everything ached while she failed to move away from collossal orbs rolling at her, she cried as Gannet dug himself into her, every spirit in need of release tested the border of consciousness further. Dorin would have much rather fulfilled the other goal.
-
Black, white squares danced behind her. Her arms stung with yearning. Hopelessly she waved around, her muscles incompliant to the task. Her finger stroked along the Eye's leg, smiled, then fell.
Slowly she let it all fade to black.
-
Statues, monuments of people she didn't recognise towered above her. Drowning in a damp puddle of robes, tears solidified, liquified, rendered every last press of sorrow herculean to the eyes.
She blotted out.
-
“So'mo gescht'eks”
You're junk. That's what it said to Zimmer.
Ethereal speech is single so that while you don't comprehend the words and clicks and sounds that form it, you still understand what it says. That's why every fiber in Zimmer shivered in tense paranoia, remembering all the times he had been junk. All those people and places and memories he swore never to gain again.
That's why Dorin mouthed “Junk” over and over, bordering delirium, though she was far from understanding what noise the dragonfly was making.
Gannet noticed, in the peculiar, disconnected way Eyes noticed, but didn't realise what she was gasping for. Oblivious, he slowly reached down. There it was again, the smell of light, of the Oracle Oracle I'm coming he would have yelled. Her chest blew in the white breeze that escaped from her lips and if only he could reach it there's a light in her it's moving do you want me to if only he could reach her, beyond that weary hull around her and finally see the Oracle and smell it and taste it bask in the radiant stream its voice smelled of and he crept closer and over her and cautiously forced his teeth against her lips to taste what the light felt like.
A spectacle, to Zimmer, he couldn't fully enjoy. Young love could very well blossom, and Gannet shouldn't be stopped because of being... He had no words to put it delicately. But still, he knew now wasn't the time, and here wasn't the place for the two to... erm... commit themselves like that. “Gannet!” Again he couldn't add anything. Just, the very thought “The very thought!” of what he was doing was just so out of place! “So out of place!” Frustrating to the man as Gannet showed no sign of remorse, not even recognition of his words. Fragmentarian words made no impact on the simile of social interaction Gannet came equipped with. Zimmer paused too long, breathed between lines, intoned wrongfully in the face of danger.
She woke up, a storybook kiss, lips a luscious red, beauty in her bleeding flesh. Gannet pulled back his avaricious teeth when she moaned in her chronic nonpsychè. Magnet to the oracle, her hands struggled to keep pace with the way she crawled in primal sense over the floor, towards bashful Gannet. Though surprising, he felt no threat. No fear. She smiled. Her head bobbed, she wiped her blood away. She hung over him now, still blood dripped, silently. A slack snake slithered along her palm, trailing though drips of her, snout red. The mockingfly hung above.
“I am not junk!” Spit at Gannet. Nails flew up, dug through emerald hide. The sound of shattering glass broke apart to a tempest of butterflies, kaleidoscope.
Again Oracle. Gannet shielded his eyes. He couldn't look. Prism stars departed.
“I'm...”
The Eye spoke.
“I shouldn't.”
Cut off by silence. He sunk the avarice in his own remorse.
The monster was complete. Others tracked the pencils as they drew, terror like drapes condensing at the bottom. Dorin however slid up, the pose she was in forced so. Tentacles of fire shambled and lashed, whips of flame. Scorched skin hung from stakes in gaps in its torso, spikes protruded, spikes perforated. Topping off the terror, four faces, Davids Beckham.
David Beckham. A funny face, considering the mood.
“Aaaaah! It's the Beckham!” Rollo was a tight ball moments after concrete hair combed back even joined the equation of the monster, and at the completion of the faces bounced around the room in terror. “It's the Beckhaaaam! It's the B-B-B-Beckhaaaam!” He shook Martin, released, flailed around wildly. The cartoon zoomed around the scene at angles and speeds, stopped in the middle of the room, top hat, cane in hand to perform a little song and dance.
“It's the Beckham! It's the Beckham! And I'm gonna disappear!
It's the Beckham, David Beckham! I'll make like Britney Spears!
He got twenty rows of teeth and he once ate the town of Wickham,
There are mushrooms on his feet, these are facts and you can check 'em!”
What passed as dance in song-and-dance these days fitted more as Kalinka than Manhattan-showtime.
A silver gecko chirped to strengthen the girl's laughter. She couldn't help. Mockery made, the chimera retaliated. Torrid thorns, those of which didn't support the Goliath hominid, curled, tensed, lauched spires of searing heat.
Hellish rancor reflected, refracted on the perfect blank mirror the reptile grew. Dorin, though cramped, held her hand up straight, controlling or controlled by the ancient animal.
A sleeping cocoon cracks to do battle.
“Dorin, you're alright! Do you feel well?”
“I'm fine.”
“Your mind is relaxed. Did you do what, I don't know.”
“Let's just say I got a chance to think, okay? Focus on that thing in front of us first. I'll talk to you later about some things.”
“You're fighting that?!”
“I know.”
“...Is that... David-”
“I know.”
“Well, whatever you do...”
“Shh, shut up for a second, I'm hearing something...”
A voice inside. Tones such beauty, such calm assurance it was one of the first to help to stay inside and not force a way out away from her. It introduced as Oracle and they would be together for a while. “She'd be delighted.”
Dorin took slow steps towards her eyes. She stroked Gannet's hair aside, futile, held his claw and murmured, “Yes.” Yes, she wanted to be of the Oracle.
Gannet would protect her, always. He would be a good knight to her.
-
The Guignol's many tails and tentacles wrapped and coiled, wafted smoke. One of the quadruple men noticed Vuul as he marched through the archways. Pounding of feet, pounding of weaponry, truly a warrior's rhythm. Vulm'mram strode towards the beast, unaback from the flames it hurled. Swift on his feet he switched stances and weaponry, the battle a feast to the eyes and mind. No hero could make a battle more akin to art. Blades became winds, winds became tempests and raged through the castle halls. It took rigour and precision to do battle with such fantastic finesse.
Synchronous to his victim's shriek – for no other name the target of such an immense volley was worth – infernal pens appeared again, not to replicate, but to create. Swords stagnated in mid-air, skeletal arms reached for them. The faces of men became draconic as their teeth grew sharp, necks grew long and face grew dismal. And true to their inspiration in dragonry, thunder sparked in their jaws.
No smile was etched on our hero's face, but even the most remote spectator knew he felt pleased. As if by lightning struck, Vulm'mram'Vuul's mind raced. A painter selects prushes, mixes colors, sketches in coal. Vuul conjured up strategies, contemplated stances, sorted weaponry, scanned his opponent. The battle was only to rage more fiercely than already before.
Pain, not death, is the goal of life. Everything ached while she failed to move away from collossal orbs rolling at her, she cried as Gannet dug himself into her, every spirit in need of release tested the border of consciousness further. Dorin would have much rather fulfilled the other goal.
-
Black, white squares danced behind her. Her arms stung with yearning. Hopelessly she waved around, her muscles incompliant to the task. Her finger stroked along the Eye's leg, smiled, then fell.
Slowly she let it all fade to black.
-
Statues, monuments of people she didn't recognise towered above her. Drowning in a damp puddle of robes, tears solidified, liquified, rendered every last press of sorrow herculean to the eyes.
She blotted out.
-
“So'mo gescht'eks”
You're junk. That's what it said to Zimmer.
Ethereal speech is single so that while you don't comprehend the words and clicks and sounds that form it, you still understand what it says. That's why every fiber in Zimmer shivered in tense paranoia, remembering all the times he had been junk. All those people and places and memories he swore never to gain again.
That's why Dorin mouthed “Junk” over and over, bordering delirium, though she was far from understanding what noise the dragonfly was making.
Gannet noticed, in the peculiar, disconnected way Eyes noticed, but didn't realise what she was gasping for. Oblivious, he slowly reached down. There it was again, the smell of light, of the Oracle Oracle I'm coming he would have yelled. Her chest blew in the white breeze that escaped from her lips and if only he could reach it there's a light in her it's moving do you want me to if only he could reach her, beyond that weary hull around her and finally see the Oracle and smell it and taste it bask in the radiant stream its voice smelled of and he crept closer and over her and cautiously forced his teeth against her lips to taste what the light felt like.
A spectacle, to Zimmer, he couldn't fully enjoy. Young love could very well blossom, and Gannet shouldn't be stopped because of being... He had no words to put it delicately. But still, he knew now wasn't the time, and here wasn't the place for the two to... erm... commit themselves like that. “Gannet!” Again he couldn't add anything. Just, the very thought “The very thought!” of what he was doing was just so out of place! “So out of place!” Frustrating to the man as Gannet showed no sign of remorse, not even recognition of his words. Fragmentarian words made no impact on the simile of social interaction Gannet came equipped with. Zimmer paused too long, breathed between lines, intoned wrongfully in the face of danger.
She woke up, a storybook kiss, lips a luscious red, beauty in her bleeding flesh. Gannet pulled back his avaricious teeth when she moaned in her chronic nonpsychè. Magnet to the oracle, her hands struggled to keep pace with the way she crawled in primal sense over the floor, towards bashful Gannet. Though surprising, he felt no threat. No fear. She smiled. Her head bobbed, she wiped her blood away. She hung over him now, still blood dripped, silently. A slack snake slithered along her palm, trailing though drips of her, snout red. The mockingfly hung above.
“I am not junk!” Spit at Gannet. Nails flew up, dug through emerald hide. The sound of shattering glass broke apart to a tempest of butterflies, kaleidoscope.
Again Oracle. Gannet shielded his eyes. He couldn't look. Prism stars departed.
“I'm...”
The Eye spoke.
“I shouldn't.”
Cut off by silence. He sunk the avarice in his own remorse.
The monster was complete. Others tracked the pencils as they drew, terror like drapes condensing at the bottom. Dorin however slid up, the pose she was in forced so. Tentacles of fire shambled and lashed, whips of flame. Scorched skin hung from stakes in gaps in its torso, spikes protruded, spikes perforated. Topping off the terror, four faces, Davids Beckham.
David Beckham. A funny face, considering the mood.
“Aaaaah! It's the Beckham!” Rollo was a tight ball moments after concrete hair combed back even joined the equation of the monster, and at the completion of the faces bounced around the room in terror. “It's the Beckhaaaam! It's the B-B-B-Beckhaaaam!” He shook Martin, released, flailed around wildly. The cartoon zoomed around the scene at angles and speeds, stopped in the middle of the room, top hat, cane in hand to perform a little song and dance.
“It's the Beckham! It's the Beckham! And I'm gonna disappear!
It's the Beckham, David Beckham! I'll make like Britney Spears!
He got twenty rows of teeth and he once ate the town of Wickham,
There are mushrooms on his feet, these are facts and you can check 'em!”
What passed as dance in song-and-dance these days fitted more as Kalinka than Manhattan-showtime.
A silver gecko chirped to strengthen the girl's laughter. She couldn't help. Mockery made, the chimera retaliated. Torrid thorns, those of which didn't support the Goliath hominid, curled, tensed, lauched spires of searing heat.
Hellish rancor reflected, refracted on the perfect blank mirror the reptile grew. Dorin, though cramped, held her hand up straight, controlling or controlled by the ancient animal.
A sleeping cocoon cracks to do battle.
“Dorin, you're alright! Do you feel well?”
“I'm fine.”
“Your mind is relaxed. Did you do what, I don't know.”
“Let's just say I got a chance to think, okay? Focus on that thing in front of us first. I'll talk to you later about some things.”
“You're fighting that?!”
“I know.”
“...Is that... David-”
“I know.”
“Well, whatever you do...”
“Shh, shut up for a second, I'm hearing something...”
A voice inside. Tones such beauty, such calm assurance it was one of the first to help to stay inside and not force a way out away from her. It introduced as Oracle and they would be together for a while. “She'd be delighted.”
Dorin took slow steps towards her eyes. She stroked Gannet's hair aside, futile, held his claw and murmured, “Yes.” Yes, she wanted to be of the Oracle.
Gannet would protect her, always. He would be a good knight to her.
-
The Guignol's many tails and tentacles wrapped and coiled, wafted smoke. One of the quadruple men noticed Vuul as he marched through the archways. Pounding of feet, pounding of weaponry, truly a warrior's rhythm. Vulm'mram strode towards the beast, unaback from the flames it hurled. Swift on his feet he switched stances and weaponry, the battle a feast to the eyes and mind. No hero could make a battle more akin to art. Blades became winds, winds became tempests and raged through the castle halls. It took rigour and precision to do battle with such fantastic finesse.
Synchronous to his victim's shriek – for no other name the target of such an immense volley was worth – infernal pens appeared again, not to replicate, but to create. Swords stagnated in mid-air, skeletal arms reached for them. The faces of men became draconic as their teeth grew sharp, necks grew long and face grew dismal. And true to their inspiration in dragonry, thunder sparked in their jaws.
No smile was etched on our hero's face, but even the most remote spectator knew he felt pleased. As if by lightning struck, Vulm'mram'Vuul's mind raced. A painter selects prushes, mixes colors, sketches in coal. Vuul conjured up strategies, contemplated stances, sorted weaponry, scanned his opponent. The battle was only to rage more fiercely than already before.
quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur.