Mark of Fate, posts 47-65
| Oz | Looking up at the strange one, Rolven was shaken by what he saw. It was not so much the devilish, ridged protrusions around his face, it wasn’t the sharp and blackened incisors, nor the unnatural angularity of Chelsop’s advisor’s jaw.
No, it was in the man’s eyes….Rolven saw himself reflected, a man who had lost everything, a man who was about to commit nothing short of deicide, a man who was beyond all hope and despair. He pulled his gaze away before he could drown there, shrinking from the man/devil’s terrible countenance. Rolven knew there was more going on then he could have any idea about, but he also knew that, yes, Chelsop had done something, something that had started unravelling the very foundations of the world. The sickness that his woman had been suffering with for so long, in such agony, had become more widespread than ever it was before Chelsop’s reign, livestock was dying mysteriously, with alarming frequency, even the sky had lost its visage of purity…the sun scorched the earth, the winds tore the clouds and the souls of Rolven’s own love, many of his friends, and many people that he didn’t know away. It was as if the world was in its death throes, dying a most ignoble death, and why? For what reason? Chelsop knew…moreover, Chelsop had started this downward progression, and if the screams and supplications of the thousands dying in misery could not stir the man-god to compassion and correction then perhaps…. “Yes, my son, no just god would treat his people like that,” came the wise and loving voice of the man standing next to Rolven. |
| Unspeakable | Detective Roger Bleats lit another cigarette, offering one to the ragged black vagrant that huddled under the Pizza-Grill awning, “Did you see anything, anything at all?” The old man accepted the gift slowly, scratching the knarly patch of grey on his chin, “I didn’t.”
Bleats frowned as he held up his lighter, then turned it over in his hand as if he were fidgetting, “Did you hear anything, like a gunshot or a yell?” The old vagrant’s hand shook as he held the white cylinder, his eyes never leaving the lighter, “Nah, I didn’t.” Bleats held back the curses under his breath. Never in his life had he been so boldly told to stay away from a case. He had asked around the station about the tall man with the mirrorshades, and had been blown off by everyone, as if the stranger had never existed. All the more reason to arouse the detective’s ire and suspicion. When all hope seemed lost, the bum finally conceded the first lead Roger had experienced yet; “I didn’t, but Old Crazy Gary was there.” |
| PhantomCrow | The detective looked over to where the vagrant was pointing. In the shadows was a bum who was so filthy, he blended in with the garbage and dirty concrete. He was drinking from a paper sack and mumbling to himself, what he was saying was unclear but very animated as if he were trying to carry on a conversation and he was all three participants.
As the detecive approached he could hear the conversation the bum was having with himself. |
| Unspeakable | “…you know that, I know that, but the BIG man don’t know shit, and that’s why this is all going to turn into one big lead fart in church. I knew that. DON’T CONTRADICT ME!” Bleats cautioned forward, the bum barely noticing him and continuing, “Oh, the light shown down and the creeper went back to Hollywood…”
“Can I talk to you Gary?” “Gary, he wants to talk to you.” Bleats waited for a response, and then saw that the bum was preoccupied scratching his forehead until he drew blood, a sure indicator of the bum’s reliability. Eventually, feeling precious time and his chances of solving this enigma fleeting, Bleats tried again, “What did Gary see last night?” The mess of filth and rags and unkempt hair roared with laughter, and then curled its entire body forward into a sneer, “Gary’s a little too fucked up to talk about that right now!” The bum continued snickering haughtily, but the detective noticed that Gary’s right hand, moving independant of thought, was slowly tracing drawings in the dirt; a stylized symbol of an eye. |
| Oz | “Alright then, forget Gary…you wanna tell me about it?” the detective asked. “Oh, naw look Gary…Billy Brickjaw over here think he’s gonna play his sickology games ’n shit like he knows. He don’ know.” At this, the bum hocked up an enormous ball of phlegm, landing it expertly on Bleats’ shoe. The bum spewed out a colorful array of anti-police epithets that Bleats quickly tuned out, instead watching the pattern on the ground grow and shift. Each change seemed very deliberate and necessary to the whole, from the apparent care the bum took drawing it out, even while the spittle was flying.”…and so I says, keep your voodoo hoodoo shit with the lights and all that, you keep that shit to yo’self or I’ll be talkin’ a baseball bat upside ya head and I don’t know nothin’. I DON’T KNOW NOTHIN’!!” the bum shouted, flailing his arms about him to illustrate that he didn’t, in fact, know anything. Bleats realized he must have missed something, but the only response the bum gave him was a surly “fuck you” as he fell back to mumbling quietly. In short order, the bum had also knocked crap all over the eye he had drawn, and Bleats could only hope he remembered it well enough to draw a sketch of it later. |
| Unspeakable | ***** The ornate tapestries and gilded biers of the Kruskat Temple were burning in flames, its stone walls smattered with the blood of its priests; bronze skinned slaves, the madness of zeal and retribution in their eyes, tore through its mighty halls sparing none their scythe blades. Rolven, their leader, spearheaded their assault on Chelsop’s private chambers, smashing down the great iron doors.
Inside they found the Pharoh ready for the attack, surrounded by his alchemical weapons and ancient texts. “Traitors have no place in Ra’s kingdom,” shouted Chelsop as he raised his hand and let fly a volley of fire-wreathed hornets. They hurtled toward Rolven and his men, then burned out like candles in a downpour. “What,” gasped the Pharoh, “what devilry protects you, a commoner?!” “This is for Saphuna and everyone else you’ve afflicted, you black souled snake,” was the cry as Rolven did with his jambya what Chelsop had done with his plagues: butchered his heart. Outside the crumbling temple Rolven was greeted by the pale wise man, “Excellent my son; now place in my hand the runestone you took from the Pharoh.” Rolven obediently reached into his sachel, but his hand grasped only lint, a worried expression mounting his brow, “I had it…” Giddy with excitement, Zachal the theif leap out of the burning side gates of the Kruskat Temple, turning over again in his hand the souvenier trinket he had pocketted, his own little piece of history he was sure. ***** |
| Oz | Scott and Carrie had finally managed to rouse Pete, who was less than coherent, as if he’d just woken up from a very deep sleep. He’d all but forgotten where they were, why they were there, and he sure didn’t remember what had happened. With his help, they’d managed to haul the unconscious body of Jamie over the wall–fortunately they weren’t more than a couple blocks away from the hospital. They all knew it was stupid to be carrying her around with them, but they needed to get her away from the cemetary before the gunman came back to or that…other thing…returned. Getting her into the emergency room was easy enough, anyone could tell that no matter how shaky the story the trio told, Jamie was seriously injured and needed attention fast. She had lost a lot of blood, and was losing more and more at an alarming rate. The three of them stayed in Jamie’s ICU room all night. No one slept, and no one spoke.As the sun slowly rose, warming the glass of the window where Scott had been leaning his forehead against, he opened his eyes a little. Watching his reflection slowly fade in the sunlight, Scott winced. “Happy birthday, Jamie,” he whispered as he punched the wall. |