ext_40491 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
vilenspotens.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
writing_shadows2008-01-13 11:08 am
vilenspotens.livejournal.com) wrote in writing_shadows2008-01-13 11:08 am
Entry tags:
I aten't dead...
Last night's London game rocked so mightily I got all inspired on the way to work and just had to.
The Acolyte trod softly along the stone corridor, his bare feet barely making a sound above the rustling of the cloth that he and the two apprentices wore. Hands clasped in devotion to The Goddess he prayed that this time he had finally found the right key to unlock his latest charge. The Englishman had been incredibly difficult so far. For the last eight weeks he had cut, sliced, tore, scraped, scratched, dug, probed and gouged at the vessel that was his current charge, and all for nothing.
The screams were merely a symptom of the pain, and not actually touching the soul inside. The spasms and jerks of the body were simply a result of the correctly applied pressure and nothing to do with the anima that allowed his charge to continue his existence. In truth, The Acolyte was beginning to get frustrated with this supplicant. He was so close to admitting failure, to informing the head of the temple that the Englishman was beyond tribulation, that he had sunk so far into himself that there was nothing left to touch, that it would be a mercy to end his existence. The mere thought of having to do this was as ashes in his mouth and he could not help but grimace. In four hundred years he had never yet failed to unlock the key to a person’s soul, and now this, this bastard from another land was going to be the first to beat him. The potential failure was rank in his throat.
He continued his prayer as he walked, praying that this time he had the right key, that he finally had something that would touch the soul and allow the spirit of The Goddess to enter his charge. If The Goddess did not see fit to bless this man, then they would have no choice but to end his existence.
Stopping at an unmarked door, he murmured phrases in a long forgotten tongue and passed his hand over the latch, which clicked and moved under his gesture to open. He motioned the apprentices forward and stood there for a moment to survey the figure in front of him.
Suspended by a bar through his ankle bones, the kindred hung inverted. The blood sweat mixed with the fluid from open wounds, the salt and silver worked into the flesh shone in the torchlight like stars upon the cold walls, the acids run from the alembics into his bloodstream, the sigils designed to cause pain and torment, to allow the nightmares to come through, the ruptured eyeball as disregarded flotsam on the floor, none of them worked. Nothing. Not one damned thing. The Charge hung there, limp and lifeless, lost in unknown depths of his own making, untouchable by every trick and gift The Order had utilised so far.
With another gesture the Apprentices lowered the rack, dropping the charge to the floor. Carefully, reverently, they removed the metal bar from his ankles and produced cloths to wipe over the worst of the wounds. One of them moved to the font at the rear of the room and took the goblet of fresh blood, bring it over to the crumpled man and offering it to his lips.
The subject’s one good eye closed in appreciation of the precious fluid and he swallowed deeply. This was his first drink in far too long and the colour rose once more to his skin. He looked up at his visitor and smiled weakly.
“Back again Jaferre? Time for a new trick?”
The Acolyte hid the grimace he wanted to show for this disrespectful, arrogant and conceited man. He forced down the desire to rush forward and rip out the condescending throat and instead walked softly into the room, up to his charge, and knelt down to his level. This had to work, it had to. He shook his head sadly.
“Not this time James. No tricks.”
He saw the confusion in his charge’s eye, saw the tacit readiness for mental sparring and resistance and knew he had to time this just right.
“Your tribulation is not over my friend.” He shook his head and continued softly. “Not over at all, there is much left for us to do, but news has reached us that may change your desire to be here, to learn from us.”
The Charge looked up at him, his one good eye questioning the latest attempt, confused at this turn of conversation.
Slowly, slowly, the Acolyte reached out a hand and placed it gently on the shoulder of his subject. Summoning all of his talent, all of his skills, he projected as much feeling and depth as he could into his words, willing with all of his abilities to get through this time.
“James, my friend, word has come from London.”
His charge looked at him, concern filling his very being as Jaferre shook his head in an affected shared sorrow.
“It is Lucius. Mayor Amelianu. Word has come that he has been slain. It has been confirmed to The Guild and has been spoken from the very lips of his own daughter and successor, Lady Tabitha. The Lord Mayor is dead.”
The single eye blinked. A small sound that may have been a denial echoed from the throat of The Englishman. Minutes passed as he watched his charge closely, minutely, waiting for…
Ah… Yes… Perfect.
He watched, forcing himself not to show his triumph, as his charge’s fangs elongated from the gum, scratching against the edge of the lip in a gesture of fear, of worry.
He had him, the news had finally reached the soul of this fortunate man, praise be to The Goddess, he had finally managed to succeed.
“James”
He was ignored, the subject’s gaze downcast. Gently he moved his hand from the shoulder to the face, caressing the cheek before cupping the chin and lifting. The eye, he had to see the eye… to look past it and into the soul. Their gazes met and the fear and sorrow were evident in his charge. The wellspring was open, but it was not yet enough, the beast was not there yet.
He leaned forward almost imperceptibly, his breath close enough to his subject to be felt on the lips, on the skin, with the tacit closeness of a lover.
“James” he breathed.
His subject held his eyes, pleading for something, anything, his sheer desperation and need completely evident. The Acolyte wished fervently that he could immediately give glorious praise to The Goddess, that he could let his soul sing in a triumph he knew would reach the very heavens themselves.
However, control was needed right now, he had to get this just right. He forced his voice to become the rasp of a serpent, biting and accusatory, a barbed coil in the heart of his charge as his words seemed to drag for an eternity in bitter condemnation, a sharp contrast to his earlier tenderness.
“You failed, James. You failed…”
*later*
He stood in the hallway, blood running fast from the gaping fang wounds in his forehead and throat, and from the ruptured stump and tattered remnants of what was once his left hand. The Apprentice in front of him was curled foetal, praying for The Goddess to deliver him from the pain of his shredded abdomen and organs. He was young, and would learn that pain is the teacher, not the controller. They had been unable to save the other apprentice unfortunately, but at times a sacrifice was necessary for the will of The Goddess to become apparent.
Behind him the locked door blocked the sight of his charge, but the razor-edge screaming echoing throughout the entire catacombs attested to his presence. The barrage against the ritually reinforced barrier would be inevitably futile, but at least the Order would already know that he had once more succeeded where no one else had, that he had done his work and that the Englishman was finally ready. By now his charge’s tortured screams would be reaching the ears of all worshippers in the Temple, and all would know that he had finally been touched by The Goddess.
He moved off towards his own room, ready for rest now, head bowed in proper obescience as he gave his praise to The Lady of Shadows and Night, to The Goddess of the Hunt and to the Dowager Lioness for granting him the insight to watch the affairs of London closely, despite the Englishman’s pretended lasse faire. Behind him the tormented roars of the animal that was once a kindred grew louder, but The Goddess be praised for the soul of this Englishman. Perhaps he could be saved after all.
The Acolyte trod softly along the stone corridor, his bare feet barely making a sound above the rustling of the cloth that he and the two apprentices wore. Hands clasped in devotion to The Goddess he prayed that this time he had finally found the right key to unlock his latest charge. The Englishman had been incredibly difficult so far. For the last eight weeks he had cut, sliced, tore, scraped, scratched, dug, probed and gouged at the vessel that was his current charge, and all for nothing.
The screams were merely a symptom of the pain, and not actually touching the soul inside. The spasms and jerks of the body were simply a result of the correctly applied pressure and nothing to do with the anima that allowed his charge to continue his existence. In truth, The Acolyte was beginning to get frustrated with this supplicant. He was so close to admitting failure, to informing the head of the temple that the Englishman was beyond tribulation, that he had sunk so far into himself that there was nothing left to touch, that it would be a mercy to end his existence. The mere thought of having to do this was as ashes in his mouth and he could not help but grimace. In four hundred years he had never yet failed to unlock the key to a person’s soul, and now this, this bastard from another land was going to be the first to beat him. The potential failure was rank in his throat.
He continued his prayer as he walked, praying that this time he had the right key, that he finally had something that would touch the soul and allow the spirit of The Goddess to enter his charge. If The Goddess did not see fit to bless this man, then they would have no choice but to end his existence.
Stopping at an unmarked door, he murmured phrases in a long forgotten tongue and passed his hand over the latch, which clicked and moved under his gesture to open. He motioned the apprentices forward and stood there for a moment to survey the figure in front of him.
Suspended by a bar through his ankle bones, the kindred hung inverted. The blood sweat mixed with the fluid from open wounds, the salt and silver worked into the flesh shone in the torchlight like stars upon the cold walls, the acids run from the alembics into his bloodstream, the sigils designed to cause pain and torment, to allow the nightmares to come through, the ruptured eyeball as disregarded flotsam on the floor, none of them worked. Nothing. Not one damned thing. The Charge hung there, limp and lifeless, lost in unknown depths of his own making, untouchable by every trick and gift The Order had utilised so far.
With another gesture the Apprentices lowered the rack, dropping the charge to the floor. Carefully, reverently, they removed the metal bar from his ankles and produced cloths to wipe over the worst of the wounds. One of them moved to the font at the rear of the room and took the goblet of fresh blood, bring it over to the crumpled man and offering it to his lips.
The subject’s one good eye closed in appreciation of the precious fluid and he swallowed deeply. This was his first drink in far too long and the colour rose once more to his skin. He looked up at his visitor and smiled weakly.
“Back again Jaferre? Time for a new trick?”
The Acolyte hid the grimace he wanted to show for this disrespectful, arrogant and conceited man. He forced down the desire to rush forward and rip out the condescending throat and instead walked softly into the room, up to his charge, and knelt down to his level. This had to work, it had to. He shook his head sadly.
“Not this time James. No tricks.”
He saw the confusion in his charge’s eye, saw the tacit readiness for mental sparring and resistance and knew he had to time this just right.
“Your tribulation is not over my friend.” He shook his head and continued softly. “Not over at all, there is much left for us to do, but news has reached us that may change your desire to be here, to learn from us.”
The Charge looked up at him, his one good eye questioning the latest attempt, confused at this turn of conversation.
Slowly, slowly, the Acolyte reached out a hand and placed it gently on the shoulder of his subject. Summoning all of his talent, all of his skills, he projected as much feeling and depth as he could into his words, willing with all of his abilities to get through this time.
“James, my friend, word has come from London.”
His charge looked at him, concern filling his very being as Jaferre shook his head in an affected shared sorrow.
“It is Lucius. Mayor Amelianu. Word has come that he has been slain. It has been confirmed to The Guild and has been spoken from the very lips of his own daughter and successor, Lady Tabitha. The Lord Mayor is dead.”
The single eye blinked. A small sound that may have been a denial echoed from the throat of The Englishman. Minutes passed as he watched his charge closely, minutely, waiting for…
Ah… Yes… Perfect.
He watched, forcing himself not to show his triumph, as his charge’s fangs elongated from the gum, scratching against the edge of the lip in a gesture of fear, of worry.
He had him, the news had finally reached the soul of this fortunate man, praise be to The Goddess, he had finally managed to succeed.
“James”
He was ignored, the subject’s gaze downcast. Gently he moved his hand from the shoulder to the face, caressing the cheek before cupping the chin and lifting. The eye, he had to see the eye… to look past it and into the soul. Their gazes met and the fear and sorrow were evident in his charge. The wellspring was open, but it was not yet enough, the beast was not there yet.
He leaned forward almost imperceptibly, his breath close enough to his subject to be felt on the lips, on the skin, with the tacit closeness of a lover.
“James” he breathed.
His subject held his eyes, pleading for something, anything, his sheer desperation and need completely evident. The Acolyte wished fervently that he could immediately give glorious praise to The Goddess, that he could let his soul sing in a triumph he knew would reach the very heavens themselves.
However, control was needed right now, he had to get this just right. He forced his voice to become the rasp of a serpent, biting and accusatory, a barbed coil in the heart of his charge as his words seemed to drag for an eternity in bitter condemnation, a sharp contrast to his earlier tenderness.
“You failed, James. You failed…”
*later*
He stood in the hallway, blood running fast from the gaping fang wounds in his forehead and throat, and from the ruptured stump and tattered remnants of what was once his left hand. The Apprentice in front of him was curled foetal, praying for The Goddess to deliver him from the pain of his shredded abdomen and organs. He was young, and would learn that pain is the teacher, not the controller. They had been unable to save the other apprentice unfortunately, but at times a sacrifice was necessary for the will of The Goddess to become apparent.
Behind him the locked door blocked the sight of his charge, but the razor-edge screaming echoing throughout the entire catacombs attested to his presence. The barrage against the ritually reinforced barrier would be inevitably futile, but at least the Order would already know that he had once more succeeded where no one else had, that he had done his work and that the Englishman was finally ready. By now his charge’s tortured screams would be reaching the ears of all worshippers in the Temple, and all would know that he had finally been touched by The Goddess.
He moved off towards his own room, ready for rest now, head bowed in proper obescience as he gave his praise to The Lady of Shadows and Night, to The Goddess of the Hunt and to the Dowager Lioness for granting him the insight to watch the affairs of London closely, despite the Englishman’s pretended lasse faire. Behind him the tormented roars of the animal that was once a kindred grew louder, but The Goddess be praised for the soul of this Englishman. Perhaps he could be saved after all.