Common sense is in spite of, not as the result of education. - Victor Hugo
Joined: Sept 2006 Posts: 29 Location: Not EVERYWHERE. Impossible.
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #15 on Nov 23, 2006, 8:21pm »
OOC: Small power-playing, Ziganna, but you're somewhat mentally unstable, so I'm taking that chance. (Ugh, Renarde is being stubborn today)! I told you before as well...
IC: "..."
Renarde was left to say after the brief confrontation. However, they weren't even words; the periods of ellipses were merely just an expression of the man's deep silence while the silence was partially of confusion. Apparently, the new form of a farewell, not that Renarde know - he was an old man - is to roughly collide into one another. Perhaps it was a new brotherly way to show affection, the opposite rule in which "I hate you" translated, meant "I love you." Or, as Renarde's pale eyes narrowed, it was that type of ancient farewell. The spare figure remained standing in that one spot. His face turned down with his pale eyes looking at the cracked paved road. He he did not appear to breath. A signal was ticking at the back of his mind and that repeating nuisance began to irritate him, surely but silently. Something seemed... unbalanced. Slowly with his talon like hands, he searched through the breeches of his damp coat. A slightly confused countenance was drawn with a small frown to his lips and furrowed brows. After a few moments of tangled talon hands in narrow pockets, Renarde was only successful in finding his pocket watch (which is useless to him at the moment). But what was he searching for? His wallet. His wallet was gone. Yes, he was of the high class society meaning that he does have a considerable amount of wealth, so why care for small change? Renarde didn't know, nor did he care. But the concept of it being lost, actually stolen, possession gave Renarde a more better incentive for him as to why he came... and why he should stay.
He sighed, clasping his talon-like hands around his back. Renarde then proceeded forward to the ringing echoes that segued ahead of him. "Friend? Our petty confrontation was the second time we've met personally," thought he as he fixed his cuffs. A scowl and a sarcastic smile was pushing fro and back on his vulpine-like face much like the movement of a windmill as he mulled over recent events. He didn't know how to feel at these affairs. Renarde grew and nurtured a suspicion that Riordan was acting strange. But he knew anyone could act strange. Renarde's first meeting with Riordan was a more reserved greeting unlike the previous one just a few moments ago. The boy, at the time, was stolid and calm always with that blank countenance and possibly with an unpredictable mind. Renarde's memories of this was not at all vague, even though he couldn't agree with himself more for the fact that he was old (or so he thought). Renarde's observant and keen demeanor doesn't fail him when it comes to recalling moments in time, but there are multiple times when the man comes to regret this. Too many times. He twitched at the thought as he turned another corner into another dark alleyway and again his mind drifted to the young boy - he was his responsibility after all. As benefactor and provider, until Riordan settled in, he had the occupation of being babysitter for awhile. Receiving a call from one of Riordan's neighbors, he was told that the young man had been gone for at least a week. How ironic that he would find him here - as a vagabond? With a cunning smile, an amiable attitude and cordial functions? Only to steal his money which was useless by the by.
There was something strange about Riordan.
For Renarde found him being attacked by a young gypsy girl.
It took several moments for this particular dilemma to actually dissolve within his conscience. His head didn't want to agree with anything at this time. Why was a gypsy girl inflicting pain on Riordan? And why was he holding a knife to her throat? Through his pale eyes, Renarde could clearly see the brawl at his angle. She was clawing at Riordan's arm as the knife was being drawn closer to her throat! Blood was being spilled already. "..." Again, this was the only reaction Renarde could make out of with such little time. He did not know what or how to feel at this perplexing scene. A rather violent, yet captivating imagery, Renarde, being the authority figure that he is, swiftly stalked toward the crazed youth. Sarcastic bile formed in his throat. The bile was transformed into wit as he stood akimbo and silent upon the fighting and apparently married couple. Only married couples fought like that. "Is this the girl you are trying to help?" he inquired placidly.
A vulpine scowl graced his lips. As he reached the crazed youth, a talon hand drew to the gypsy girl's collar and grasped it roughly. With a strength surprising of an "old man" he vehemently drew the girl back and away from Riordan. After all, he was a babysitter and apparently his rescuer as well. "It seems to be going well. She seems to be mentally unbalanced - good, that's what benevolence should result in," Renarde queried Riordan calmly, gesturing lightly toward the gypsy who's collar was still locked in his grasp and separated far from Riordan. "Forgive my loose tongue, but I thought I should add some more humor to this already humorous situation as well as a few words of advice: I must say Riordan, you're doing a horrible job." His pale eyes switched views from Ziganna to Riordan. An unanswered question drifted slowly through his conscience, "How long have they been fighting?"
"How long have you two been fighting?" Asked he. Renarde didn't need an answer.
Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake. - Victor Hugo
You cannot stop poverty by giving the poor money. - P.J. O'Rourke
Acelin, marquis de Renarde - Thirty and nine - widower - High class
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #16 on Nov 23, 2006, 9:03pm »
He was an observer of the world.
Sheridan let himself be exposed by the abusive and physical onslaught of the gypsy girl, letting the street urchin fulfill her vendetta through teared flesh and blood. He did not mind the sharp nails that dug like daggers into him, breaking his skin and drawing the blood that looked like red plush. He was indifferent to the insult to injury, the caress of his face and the viscous slap that followed. He did not care about how the frantic, spasmodic movements of the young girl came close to his heart. For Sheridan was one who searched through life, moved through life with a lust for all which it offered including the iniquities and sins of the world. It was his reckless rebellion against all those who chained him, against all those jailed him in a cage; he would sing for freedom in obstreperous tones, he would wildly attack all those who created these invisible but seemingly impenetrable walls, he would kick and scream, curse and manipulate, love only to betray as long as he could grasp in his bloody, cold, or lifeless hands his one precious treasure - freedom. For Sheridan was the self of Riordan who yearned for a dawning horizon against the suffocating night. He was the self who escaped his cage and embraced freedom and adventure and liberation Sheridan was Riordan's lust for life. So, whether it be stealing or provoking or being viciously attacked by another of his kind, he did not care. As long as his eyes can see something new he was content. He was happy.
Thus did Sheridan smile his azure eyes exhausting by the beautiful art of insanity before him, observing the blood that dripped down his face and the queer deformity of malicious intent. It was exciting. It was different and he embraced that. Detestation and hate - he immersed himself in this dark cloud of life called man's inhumanity. After all, it didn't hurt. The scratches, the torn flesh was numbed unfortunately by experience. Sheridan was adapt to pain as were all Riordan's selves; they were simply use to it. As a result, he could had pushed the gypsy girl off. After all, he was perhaps twice her size and despite her strength Riordan was one who kept his body healthy if not his soul and mind. But he didn't. He was an observer of the world, a glutton hungering and living to sate his curiosity. Sheridan knew she no longer wanted the money. The prejudice and hatred of the young girl can be seen in the indignation that flashed through her eyes, in the barbaric, savagery of the young girl and all he had done was mock her; obviously, her abhorrence was deeply rooted and it was what she lived for and lived on. Obviously, she had lost control, her sold was purged into the abyss known as indifference.
Sheridan was intrigued.
He would had kept watching until he made his escape. With each drop of blood his azure eyes would carefully scrutinize everything that happened, every line upon her face. But as her hands began to claw his sleeve, the thin fabric began to rip and an expression alien to Sheridan shadows his countenance - it may have been fear, it may had been terror but no one knew for as quickly as it came it passed. His sleeve was torn, the flesh exposed and his guile brown eyes rested upon it, knowing with apprehension what art had been carved into it. Scars ran across his arms. Slashes and cuts, red against his pale skin and dark against his soul were drawn from his shoulders to his wrist - diagonel, straight, horizontal these vestiges of pain crisscrossed and intersected and some stood alone. Some scars were new to the gallery and others were ancient and rough. All were drawn by the same hand. It was as if a crude artist maddened and engulfed in his dark passion in despair or hatred created what his convoluted and twisted soul represented onto his skin and reveled in it. One cannot know why Sheridan was affected by his these scars. They were not his after all. Everyone who occupied Riordan knew. However, it was as if he was left with the pain which the cut, the blood had released. He was left with a memory one vivified by the shearing nails of the girl. Whatever expression which shadowed Sheridan's countenance was lost though and it transformed into a mirror. The mirror reflected the very darkness, which swallowed the gypsy girl's soul. He did not know why, but the fresh scars brought him a heartbeat of poison, a pulse of power and an engulfing wave of fury and furor. All reason, all conscious which the soul contained disappeared with the tide when he saw the scars. The grip on his knife tightened, his azure eyes flashed brilliantly upon the neck exposed before him and with a countenance twisted and deformed he drew the knife back with both hands -
Only to miss.
Shocked at how he could miss such an easy target and breaking away from the wild fire, from the snaking tendrils of his heart his senses came back, his head resurfaced from the dark waters and he found the familiar "what's-his-face" before him. Azure eyes for a moment were wide and as vulnerable as a child. He had, for a moment, entered the abyss of his soul. Now, he felt the comforting scum of his home and smell the putrid fragrance of the alleyways. Indeed, he was home. The vagabond felt relived and breathed. With the baptism of a breath, the look of defenselessness disappeared as Sheridan's cunning, instinct and wit took control. Like a gallant gentleman he energetically stood up like a doll being animated once more and he came back with laughs. Unconsciously, his hand was gripping the exposed scars of his arm as if wishing to keep such artwork a secret. Sheridan was an expert upon guarding his own secret. This was his most futile and pathetic effort. Nevertheless, with glamor and an amiable demeanor he laughed as he rose from the ground, his azure eyes brilliant with merriment as if trying to paint the situation as the elder man described - a "humorous situation." His mind reeled at mock five and tangled his tongue.
"Re-Ra-Ri."
Curses, what's his name? "Friend." Sheridan would had to settle with that, but as long as he lived, it would bother the back of his mind. Of course, the back of his mind was already cluttered so it wouldn't really matter. Nevertheless, it was not the smooth start he was searching for. Azure eyes quickly shifted from the thin man to the thin girl. Blood dripped from his face and across the tears through his chest, but his arms were undamaged and untouched except for the valley of scars which already claimed it. "I...I" Come on Sheridan, think! Think!. When the mind is tangled, when it is a labyrinth where any thought is impossible to find its way out Sheridan knew he would have to resort to brawns over brain, to body over the mind. Thus did he faint. As if his knees grew liquid, his stance become threateningly unbalanced, his pupils dilated violently and with acting deserving of an award he slumped toward the wall and fell once more on the ground. Pathetic and wasted, the wall was his only support from falling. For added effect, sweat broke out upon his forehead and his breathing grew labored. Azure eyes looked wildly toward the gypsy girl and with feeble effort he raised an accusing finger at her. The other hand, which was hidden made sure the money was still in his pocket.
"Thank God you came here in time. She was trying to kill me! You saw that didn't you!" he cried vehemently. "I-I was walking and she just came out like - like a raven dishonorably hunting for scraps and carcasses. My carcass! She tried to steal my money! I swear, there must be something wrong with her head!" His breathing stopped for a moment and like a vulnerable child he sat listlessly against the walls staring at Renarde with the judging finger still accusing.
Thus did the cat, the bird and the fastidious fox collide.
OOC: Wow...dark post. And Ziganna, your character somewhat reminds me of Eponine from Les Miserables.
"Whatever I say, whatever I do, it is all the play of a mere shadow, drifting among the graveyards and drowning in the whimsical hope of living as eveyone else. For that matter, I am one as well."
Alverton, Riordan - Three and twenty - Single - Middle lower
Dr. Eric Foreman: I think your argument is specious. Dr. Gregory House: I think your tie is ugly.
Joined: Sept 2006 Posts: 38 Location: In creepy alleyways
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #17 on Nov 23, 2006, 10:38pm »
Ziganna stood not ready to poof away just yet for arguing was fulfilling her sick minded pleasure. Quarreling was her game and it always would be. Her dark brown eyes were odd, you couldn't describe them with such words as distorted, or sickly...it was something worse than that. For Riordan wasn't the only one with knives....and Ziganna's sheer pleasure of seeing him die would bring out the happiness in her.
She laughed as she saw him lie, for he wasn't very good at acting or at least to a person of Ziganna's nature for she had done it to...many times before. Pretending to be desperately ill and such she was too clever to play these silly street urchin games. She placed her bloody hand upon her forehead dramatical clearly showing that she was mocking,
"Oh! How dare he make such an assertion!" she yelled. After which the laugher welled up with in her throat to let out a melodious chuckle. "I admit I tried to kill him! There you have it that this street urchin in my mind would be better to view upon in a puddle of crimson red but must we face into that matter?" she said with a very odd smirk. "Well then," she began feeling the urge to tear away from the man holding the slowly tearing collar of her rag dress . She felt disgusted by all the touching, even though the man wasn't exactly touching her she spat on the ground all the same by the very feeling of bile that was in her throat. "If there is something wrong with My head, then your head must be leaking intelligence by the very second I'm speaking to you! Oh look you are indeed leaking as we speak!" she laughed speaking of the blood that dripped from his face, "I must say that you are indeed the most nonsensical minded man I have ever seen in my life if you couldn't even put forth the effort (When I knew you could) to fight me off" she said. "When I was the very one who clawed at your face, you accepted it. Frankly you just made my pursuit much easier!" she said. Her hair somewhat was in her face and she shaked it looser to reveal her darker skin.
"I suppose my race would have some, in a way connection to the attack prevailed upon you? I would assume a man of your state of mind would believe so wouldn't you. There is no reason to point fingers at one's race for the consequence of one's own stupid actions of not telling me to stop what I had begun! So as you can see this was indeed your own fault that you would have died if this, kind sir didn't fight me off you." Twisting the logic into a quite confusing matter Ziganna smirked. For her race was an excuse for other's stupidity even if they weren't racist at all, but her mother always told her to tell the police not to discriminate one for the race of them...and for some reason it always worked. Even though Ziganna hated her mother, the woman who gave her the horrible life she had...she had a very interesting way of living it.
Every day was a new trick to be learned, more cunning words to spit. Learning all of this in her home (to Ziganna really it wasn't a home, but more a place where she lived) She was able to doge many obstacles that were thrown her way. Until the present time of the age she was she had only grown stronger in the mind and in the body. Looking small and fragile...but really hiding many a trick up her sleaves...literally. Ziganna felt the knives, on her neck, and on her arms, even strapped to her waist to make it look like the other ribs protruding from her emaciated body. She ran her bloody fingers up her arms, for it was a bit chilly out and she made it as an excuse to do her very evil doings. She also hid something of great power within her cloak, but she would not reveal what it was....for this was not the time. Nor would she ever think it would be such a time to reveal what she hid. She quickly reached under her sleeves to pull out two daggers that were strapped to her arms.
She didn't do anything with them and her grip on the daggers was unbelievably unbreakable. The blades were fine edged, cutting straight through many things you were willing to shall we say chop. She was not released from the man's grasp on her collar that was slowly but surely tearing, for she heard the noise of a rip that she knew was the collar upon her neck. She aimed the dagger at the poor, dying Riordan. She knew her aim was magnificent for these daggers were her best friends, for they seemed to smile with her. The other dagger was pointed backward at the man who held her by the collar. "I merely seek your death..." she whispered. Know what insanity came to her soul she continued to feed it, "If you escape alive," she said. "May all your days be merry" she chuckled. Her eyes were inflamed with her own anger and insanity balled into one whole rage. Nothing would really stop her now for it was too great, too overpowering. Her dark hair was shadowing her darkly colored face, but still revealing those eyes that were so indescribable with vocabulary. Her breathing was paced with small laughs along with smirks. Her hands turned that yellow pale white from gripping the dagger so tightly, and the feeling was amazing.
"Also...that sound. That mesmerizing sound that is within you...within your pocket if I will point out. Was the very money offered to me. The only gift I remember you getting was the pleasure of having kissed the hand of an aristocrat, or has the knowledge of that leaked from your mind too?" said she. Her knife aiming for the heart, she was waiting though. To see if he would continue to act as if he were helpless, or if he would whip out those knives he had in his own pleasure of attacks. This day just got better and better! The smirk on her face was glowing with pure insane evil pleasure and she revealed it for all eyes to see. Having said all she needed to say all she had to do was wait. Counting down the mere seconds for his response, 10, 9, 8. To see his anger, or acting of pain, 7, 6, 5. To have his very existence whipped off the face of the earth...and feeling delight about it, 4, 3, 2....having killed another man....and having many more to go...
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #18 on Nov 24, 2006, 8:41am »
He knew when to quit the act. All actors do either when the curtain was dropped, the theater closed or the rowdy audience showed their appreciation by leaving or better, presenting presents of rotten vegetable and an applause of boos. He knew that the vulpine man was sharp. Despite his ancient appearance, Sheridan knew that the hazel eyes were observant, the ears acute and based on his audience, it was best to quite the act. Of course, it didn't matter if the gypsy girl approved. He wasn't trying to convince her. Azure eyes looked upon the gypsy girl. The words she spewed filled him with amusement. Merriment had soon aided in breaking down his insane moment. A moment, that was all he needed for his convoluted mind.
Thus did Sheridan stand up, a feral expression contorting his handsome countenance. Azure eyes were dark and muddled like the pools of a murky swamp, its abyss holding all which was Sheridan's genuine, guile nature. A dark smile graced his lips. Ominous shadows engulfed him. He stood strong and healthy as if nothing ailed him, as if nothing disturbed him for his mind now clear and lucid, no longer a twining labyrinth. The masquerade broke into small pieces as he stood. With the confidence so well known to him, he stretched his arms languorously once more and casually paced a few steps as he listened. Like the gentleman he was, he listened with open ears. His heart on the other hand was deaf. During her tirade his gaze flickered about, contemplating his situation and sometimes toward his so called reinforcement. His plan had worked perfectly especially when he had taken a risk and forced his hand upon this deal; at the moment, it was perhaps the most fun Sheridan had had in his three days of liberation. The interaction of humans was the greatest form of entrainment to him. His hand still gripped his scars as if everyone wanted to hide the artwork of pain and isolation, ashamed of the gallery of memories drawn with knives. Sheridan was unconscious of this action. It may have been Lyon or Leon, Rafael or Riordan himself who was covering his marred skin. However, as the harangue of the gypsy girl drew to an end he stood still, his back toward her and a strange, deep silence fell about him. Slowly, he rotated and looked upon the apprehended girl curiously. That curiosity became darkened, like night upon sunset, like sudden sleep that comes with death.
"My dear little bird, you're not worth the skin under my nails." He always had a smile on, a smirk or a humorous frown. It was his part of his nature, a guile smile and a gentleman decorum which weave together his masquerade costume. "You're not worth the blood on my hands." Always his lips were curved whether it be in amusement or joy. However, at that moment, for once during the confrontation of the cat, the bird and the fox, the cat did neither. He did not smile nor did he frown. He was serious. He was grave. "You are not worth the effort." His marble countenance remained as once more he spread his arms, showing the scars, the blood and the torn flesh, but showing that he was indifferent to the pain, to the shame to every emotion he may have against her. Not even detestation or humiliation effected him. He was one who personified liberation. "I accepted it because your joy is pitiful. Your prejudice deformed and frankly, stupid. And I am not pointing at race, so don't try to tag your mother along with this game. I am pointing at you and you alone." Sheridan continued walking backwards, his injured face a statue untouched by rain or withered by wind. He lifted his head, his azure eyes brilliant.
Sheridan was a strange creature of the slums. From his appearances to his demeanor, from the state of his clothes to the state of his perfect matters he was an oxymoron in itself or an enigma of a human split into two different selves. Nevertheless, he was not convoluted. He lived with a passion even if that passion was the iniquities of life, of stealing, of risks and excitement. Sheridan lived for no one, but himself. The principles of his life were based on the pronouns "I" and "me" and he practiced it as a pious priest loyal to his religion. His god was liberation, his Bible was a book of rules he wrote himself and he would reverend freedom and portray it through his soul for all to see. To do so, he was purged of all emotion to mankind and while some hated and was vehemently against sin, judged it and condemned it, he was crusading against those who were bound, those who were chained. Before him, was a despicable example. An ardent passion unseen or unexpected in the nonchalant and indifferent Sheridan were laced through his words.
"You're not a bird," he said softly his dark azure eyes piercing. "You're a bird in a cage, bound by hatred. You live on it. You feed it. You sell your soul to it. And I let you sate your gluttony so that I can sate my own. I didn't fight back because your abhorrence and prejudice for men is entertainment in itself! You have a lovely face dear mademoiselle," he added suddenly, though politely. "But your wings are clipped. And I do not deal with those whose wings belong to the very men you detest. So thank you." Sheridan executed an elaborate bow to the gypsy girl, bowing his head humbly and when he rose again, the mask to his facade was put on once more as the azure eyes shined and the smirk returned. "But it is I who should be wishing you merry days to come. How long will that detestation help you until it consumes you? Go ahead, attack me, scorn me, use invectives towards me, but it will not matter. For when it is dusk tonight I will have forgotten of his little episode, pray, I may not even be here. I will have nothing against you and I can begin living my very own life not controlled by anyone else. But you, you will be in a prison. The prison is your very soul." He lifted his head and made himself vulnerable, exposing his neck, spreading his arms -- an easy target.
"I know you have daggers. After all, we share the life of thieves -- guess we do have something in common." He gave a small chuckle. The thought of death made the chuckle louder, into a laugh and soon it ignited a wild chanting, one that may had fit the howl of a wolf for not only did his teeth show, but his gums as well. The laugh echoed throughout the alleyways, heard throughout the inner labyrinth of his home, bouncing off walls and ricocheting like bullets. But it did not fade away. It simply ended and something changed, something was different as he returned his frostbite focus on the girl once more. He did not smile. He did not smirk. Somehow, he was different. "Yes, yes, I agree. Kill me if you must! What excitement! What wonder! Especially when you'll be killing more than just me." The azure eyes once brilliant, now exploded and ranshakled. He continued ranting. "You'll be killing, let us see...six of us. Yes, six! But that shouldn't disturb you! Killing six men! A six year old and a five year old! How exciting! You be my judge! Condemn me, execute me!"
It was practically shouting with glee, beckoning her, encouraging her, mocking her as if the thought of death pleased it or the thought of an attempt entertained it. "I'm glad I have another one who agrees. I'll let her feed her devil-sold gluttony! What did he always say? "Death has always claimed me?" Yes, yes, that's correct. I never heard truer words than that. At least it will be us who will be free at the end of the day. And if you, my little caged bird, choose not to, then it will be fine with me. I'll humor you even, make it more easy and turn around." As he turned his back to the two however, a mature voice slipped from his lips, nonchalant and exquiste.
"That is not fine with me. I should have some say in this."
"Lik' she'll do it anyway. She's a girl." returned an abrasive and boyish guttural.
"This one begs you to stop. This is going too far," a soft, angelic voice called out.
"Stop it! I-I don't want to die! I don't wanna die! No, not me! Nah-uh!" Childish and young it was laced with fear.
"SHUT UP!"
The rambling continued, he raised his scared arms as if to barricade himself and his lips moved, the voices were heard and he was plunged in his own little world where the population was six, the act real and the silence unknown.
"Whatever I say, whatever I do, it is all the play of a mere shadow, drifting among the graveyards and drowning in the whimsical hope of living as eveyone else. For that matter, I am one as well."
Alverton, Riordan - Three and twenty - Single - Middle lower
Dr. Eric Foreman: I think your argument is specious. Dr. Gregory House: I think your tie is ugly.
Joined: Sept 2006 Posts: 38 Location: In creepy alleyways
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #19 on Dec 5, 2006, 4:40pm »
Ziganna didn't really care that he brought up her own mother into words. "What a striking comeback my friend! You actually have some brainpower after all!" said she. "I must say, is it really much of an insult to me? I would absolutely think not for a mother only gives birth to you, whether you have any affection or not is your own choice...I assume that you were not loved, but why should I care?" said she. Her sharp glimmering daggers pointed toward him and still toward the sickly male that was holding her by the collar. "You! Get off me, this is none of your business at all, you should be gone!" she yelled hoping he would hear her. Her eyes were terribly hideous to the very look, her smile was sinful but this was a rage she could not control even if she wanted to.
"Kill a six year old?" she said with a smirk. "Well even though I do insist that we are both phycoticly insane, you are hallucinating sir! Even if I did, he would grow to a sick man if i let him live, I really think I would kill anyone in the state I'm in which coincidently you have brought it upon yourself!" Again her eyes were indescribable again...having no describable position. Her ebon raven hair was slightly in her face and chuckles were released from her mouth. She knew her escape was foolproof but this was so fun! She still heard the collar of her raggedy dress tear by the second her head was pulled backward. Her petite body could scurry away quickly, and for some strange reason no one seemed to recognize her at the next meeting. She was quite fond of confusing innocent people, but when it came to those who weren't innocent it was twice as pleasurable.
She began to twirl the knife in her hand for she knew if she actually threw it at him he would probably catch it. She tried to make it easy like that to have things interesting but her plot was growing...synically and evil throbbing in her mind that was so productive of those thoughts. She had nothing better to do. Hearing one large tear that seemed go a bit more down her neck revealing it to the slightly bitter air that she smiled at. She knew the man in back of her still had the grip on her but it wouldn't be for long. He would be wishing he was sorry as soon as he did let go. She heard him shout out in very strange varieties of voices, she laughed aloud in the most annoying fashion.
"My god! That was amazing indeed, that child's voice was so convincing, you are insane!" she said quite proud in fact of him. She was viewing his all the voices he had previewed. Quite entertaining it was to her. Listening to his voice, with a little boy, and others just made those savage drums beat faster. More blood to shed in a way. Ziganna was happy and arrogant at this moment. "Do you wish to have another attempt to try to make me sympathetic, or may I kill you before I grow bored." I wish for a challenge for god's sake! thought the gypsy. Her life had been a challenge and instead of looking down at them she merely enjoyed them and craved them. Strange and unusual ways of doing things. Her magic that made her peculiarly mysterious made her smirk all the while. For no one, not even herself knew the secret! She was taught only for the purpose of crime which she didn't enjoy commiting. But moments like these did not come often thankfully. Arrogance stained her life, the men that came through her path would touch her hair and try to touch her face...oh the sick destortion of it all! I do not believe something could be more able to make my bile well up in my throat! she either injured or killed out of that particular rage. It was her strongest deffence in her life. Her hate and revenge was all she had that made that warm intoxicating feeling within her spark. She loved it so!
She thought back to her plan...oh yes that twisted mind of hers was flowing with thoughts. She held the dagger to the sky, those evil wheels were turning within her mind and she wouldn't let them just stop without having them all participate in her very joy. She hoped Riordan was having fun...for then there would be no point would there be? She had a plan but as always she would wait to unleash it. For the perfect moments came only by moving time...patients to Ziganna was a virtue that was not to be wasted.
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #20 on Dec 9, 2006, 7:31pm »
Childhood - it is a moment in time, a passage in time all have lived through as long as those who have lived through it were above the ages of said children. For many, it was a magical, innocent time. Even the connotation of the word conceived images of giddy laughter, of tickling tumbles, of bright Saturdays in which play and relaxation seemed to melt away and vanquish the iniquities and hardships of the world if only for a moment. And those bright Saturdays can be found everyday in a child's smile for some. For in their transient and vulnerable eyes lay emotions many would try to cover and hide behind propriety and decorum as the years past. In their eyes was acceptance and warmth fueled by their naive thoughts of the world. For they did not know of pain yet. They did not know of death, of murder, of rape of the deformed and nefarious hearts of men. Untouched were their hearts by the sordid qualities of the everyday life. In a child's limited perspective everything was in warm colors of red, yellow and orange. Perhaps that is why mothers and fathers and elders alike smile as they observe children playing in the park. For it brought them hope, it gave them a reminder that life though harsh, was in fact magical and innocent like when snow falls to hide away the desolate earth with winter wonder. But what if that winter did not consist of soft flurries and the gentle caresses of snow? What if the winter was harsh, a snow storm and it came in a tirade of words, sharp and merciless. What if the winter came with a war hammer, which crushed the child's body? What if the winter brought in its wind the introduction of life's realities all too soon?
Then the winter would had destroyed the child. It would had broken his fragile body, mind and heart for despite the obstreperous nature of children, their loudness was only perhaps their defense. And sometimes, that was silenced as well. And when silenced, the child fell into a hollow and desolate abyss. He would talk to himself, cry to himself and beg, beg for someone to close the door to prevent the winter wind from cutting him, crushing him and forcing him to see the deformity of the world with his wide, vulnerable eyes. And eighteen years later, he could not escape that torture cell. He was still caged in that same abyss, carried the encumbering pain precariously and thus risked himself to an unpredictable life, one that can tip like a scale at either end. Thus did that scale tip, transcending the times to that one moment where he was a child and a child that never escaped his prison. The creature that was Sheridan was no more. As the gypsy girl continued her harangue, the azure eyes of the creature widened and vibrated violently, shielding himself with his arms so he would not see the bird. The bird after all, had become the ominous sign of the raven. And his mouth twitched. It moved rapidly, drowning in those merciless and sharp words once more. His mouth split unintelligent, verbose words, ones where the syllables collided with one another and he could not stop. His words became a runaway train fueled by terror. Over and over like a broken record, the defenseless, lonely six or five-year-old child apologized and he the scene was pitiful to other's eyes, perhaps even disgusting for it was expressed through the body of the twenty-one year old. A twenty-one year old was crying, his hands gripped the sides of his head as if to block out the venomous assault of words. He shivered and he trembled. And he wanted to scream. He wanted to yell furiously and run but his legs were petrified like before. His body was chained like before. And the only way to escape was to suffer through until silence came.
And another would take its place.
As the tirade of the young, gypsy girl ended, the child within Riordan calmed down, he breathed heavily, but he still cringed in a feeble, pathetic position upon the ground. His pupils seemed to shake as if his soul experienced an earthquake and rapidly they moved from the young girl to the older man. Gradually, his breathing became a patterned rhythm and when the memory of a disoriented dirge was over, an eerie equanimity baptized the creature. The function of the selves was to protect. The child did its duty; he receded and thus emerged the pride of the host in two, distinct personalities. Azure eyes lost its terror and in replace was a lucid, intelligent yet piercing quality as if the eyes had the ability to command. The twenty-one year old body stood up not with elegance, but with a rigid posture and his whole demeanor suggested a severe passion to order and decorum. His name was Rapheal; his voice was a smooth and exquisite tenor contrasting that to the elegant, flamboyancy of Sheridan.
"Despicable and disgusting," spat Rapheal vehemently and venomously, his hands placed neatly behind his back. "I must say dear Sheridan, we must do the favor of introducing her to the asylum!" Suddenly, the rigid posture because casual as Sheridan stood akimbo.
"Notice how she refuted nothing about her hatred for men?" exclaimed Sheridan with a smirk. "Seems like invectives are her only escape from the very cages that bar her. But she already belongs in an asylum - her glutinous soul!"
"And to answer your surmise," continued Rapheal as he took several steps toward the apprehended gypsy. "My mother is in France. Sheridan lost his when he was a child. As for Riordan, well, I really don't know nor should I bother prying. And who wants sympathy from you?" Rapheal gave a hearty laugh, different from the feral howling of Sheridan; however, though executed with eloquence it was mocking all the same. He noticed the dagger. He noticed the perhaps malicious plan which was fermenting underneath the young gypsy's dark eyes and yet he laughed because to his eyes, it was pitiful. With an air of superiority, he lifted his head proudly as if challenging the creature of the slums to fulfill her plan for entertainment and amusement. Rapheal was humoring her. The witty and crafty hand of Sheridan returned with a dark smirk graced upon his lips. Encouraged by the display by Rapheal, he gave another humble bow; however, it was anything but flattering.
"Are you going to kill me just because I happen to be born a man?" asked Sheridan with a smile and tilt of his head. "Have you ever thought your prejudice stupid, excuse me, ignorant? Even once? For it makes no sense to me, chaining yourself with hatred to the very men you detest. Hmm, perhaps you did not hear me the first time." The cat gave a disapproving shake of his head. "Well then," he gazed at the gypsy with curious intensity. "I'll do you another favor, my little bird - Friend," he said respectably to the vulpine man as if noticing him for the first time (still can't remember his name). "She is obviously mentally ill! She is even confessing to the premeditated murder of a child! I suggest you do something immediately before she hurts someone - or herself. To the asylum with her! It will do her good!" And though Sheridan held himself well with his elegant posture, his body was nevertheless, exhausted by the mental straining of the others. And though his voice was strong, sweat ran down his forehead. His handsome face once vivacious was now sullen. The pupils in his eyes still shook and the scarred arms trembled not from the cold, but from the aftermaths of terror still reverberating from the past confrontation with the memory of a special type of mother.
"Whatever I say, whatever I do, it is all the play of a mere shadow, drifting among the graveyards and drowning in the whimsical hope of living as eveyone else. For that matter, I am one as well."
Alverton, Riordan - Three and twenty - Single - Middle lower
Common sense is in spite of, not as the result of education. - Victor Hugo
Joined: Sept 2006 Posts: 29 Location: Not EVERYWHERE. Impossible.
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #21 on Dec 22, 2006, 7:07pm »
Honestly...this is superlatively pathetic.
Renarde lazily and quietly sighed with his breath faintly shown in the moist humidity. His talon-like hands were still grasped tightly onto the gypsy's collar so that she were to be bound to this spot upon the soles of her feet, or perhaps that was what Renarde was thinking. The man too, was kept to his position upon the soles of his feet. The gypsy, obviously being mentally ill with a knife in her hand could easily snap the boundary of sane and into the insane. So nonetheless, diligent and keen he was to every of his surroundings. But his face, his countenance appeared to be unchanging and impassive to the current actions which were reeling right in front of his dull eyes. The ravaging of tones spat back and fro as seconds and minutes were mentally begin counted down in the vulpine-like man's conscience. He could hear the fury that rebounded and reverberated as it tumbled into the air, but what they were saying didn't, and perhaps would never, seem to reach Renarde in his typical state of simple standing. Something about this confrontation kept him from listening, from watching, from observing to the unknown invectives that retorted continuously. The ties of his own mental fragments and the situation that is coming from hand intertwined and refused to process. With this, Renarde was kept silent. Then, Riordan began to speak, but not in his own voice, but in several.
Breaking back into the realm that is reality, he, like a fox eavesdropping to fulfill its curiosity, solemnly tipped his head to the side. Dull eyes were expressed faintly, half and half. One half of curiosity and the other of awareness. Renarde remained silent and finally began to watch.
The gypsy, or "it" as he preferred to dub the gypsy, who was still caught within the palm of his hand was obviously not taking the multi-changes of Riordan seriously. The gentlemen began to develop an Inquisition that it couldn't take anything earnestly. Its running mouth began to slightly infuriate Renarde, with its perpetual arrogance, but he concluded to keep at peace and to stay placid. Perhaps she would agree that she is arrogant. Oh, and it kept laughing too with its high pitched vocals. Renarde gritted his teeth and bit his tongue with a shrewd smile of discomfort. He slightly hung his head and he saw his fist slightly clenched. He heard its whimsical chuckles far too much. I suppose it can chirp for any reason. Whether it be plain or not. Renarde thought, the words slightly escaping his mouth. The whisper was both audible and inaudible at the same time. Over and over again he heard a crude laugh escape and travel from the slum corridors and into his ears. Every time, even when he didn't notice, Renarde invisibly twinged physically, mentally, or even both. Was his deep voice the only that he didn't hear vibrate and filled with the ironic shear of joy? This irritated him indeed. Remembering his own pride, he took sometime for composure and receded back to his usual, not infuriated self. (OOC: That part was sort of for fun, but anyhow, it goes).
Talon hands still locked onto the collar, his keen eye spotted a lose thread...gradually falling to the wet pavement of the floor. Hmm... Renarde began to ponder. Looking at the gypsy's collar itself, a tear, a few tears, formed at the rim of the fabric. Loose threads that were once tangled and tied with each other to form these rags which you call clothes of apparel, now splitting gradually and offering this gypsy a chance of escape and to stir more violence. Before actually examining this throughly and coherently, the gentleman, being for extreme order in both the law and possessions such as clothes, furnishing and other trivial objects the mere tear of the fabric distracted him and he was almost to the point of being sent into a trance. But of course, being the keen, rational brain the gentleman is, Renarde obtained balance - in a way. Concentrating upon the situation that began to unfold more - talk and talk did it continued to run its mouth and oh! how it talked that he couldn't even finish his train of though that should had been portrayed in this sentence. Instead, Renarde was left with a shimmering silence and the popping vein of infuriation. The gypsy's fluttering hummingbird talk pecked annoyingly at all sides of his head. What a striking comeback - Kill a six year old? - you have brought it upon yourself! -
"Riordan," he said sharply and through gritted teeth. After all, he never did like adressing...people personally. "I understand a fury in its words, but not the words. I wonder, perhaps you can graciously translate stupid, excuse me, barbarian talk for me -"
Suddenly, Riordan began to cry. Renarde was once again perplexed, yet impassive, at the morphing matter at hand. The gentleman observed as the proceeded. Something within him made his blood freeze for a split second as the hollering bulleted through the air. His mind churned as he took part of the speculation.
Through his dull fox-like eyes, the event almost felt perpetual. The gypsy seemed to fade, disappear from Renarde's vision for moment and left Renarde hanging to watch Riordan in his own trembling weeping. Dull eyes narrowed gradually to a cold stare. It felt quiet, but it wasn't. Thus, that moment, the split second ended. Riordan's voice, and another voice spurred out word into human words. Words that were in disgust, obviously, Renarde easily knew why. But one thing, another unorganized tick within the metronome - why were there two voices with its own demeanor? And what's with the changing posture? Bird? I should really look up more info of those in the lower class. Especially when they make up most of our surplus population. Renarde thought with his keen eyes still observing Riordan who had began to calm down. He must find pleasure in mentioning the asylum equally asit can laugh its own night away...this is unreasonable. He concluded. The vulpine's stiff position finally began to work with its own mechanics. Delicately and gently, Renarde's free, claw-like hands reached out to the gypsy's.
"Riordan, excuse it for me," he said with a small, cunning voice. The tips of his fingers carefully and politely pulled the knife away from the gypsy's palm. With a light, yet rather cynical smile - or smirk - Renarde held the instrument used for self-defense and, in this case robbery, and was now in his possession. The gentleman began to amuse himself by twirling the object gracefully, his hands fumbling with the clear-cut dagger while avoiding being wounded by its narrow, sharp side. It was rather a small performance to his own eyes. He couldn't tell if the gypsy was eying the graceful hand and knife, but mentally, Renarde was solely enjoying himself. However, the clever throwing of a simple knife, Riordan again was acting up. Perspiration at temples, flaccid posture, mental straining, dilating pupils, Renarde wasn't the only one who could get sick; the gentleman wasn't today. He sighed. With the handle of the knife tightly in his grasp, and the gyspy being relatively light he fiercely swung his arm (and her) as if getting rid of a trivial, useless object. Incidentely, Renarde heard a rip. In his hands now was a ripped collar, its threads hanging loose. He didn't bother looking back at the fate of the gypsy. Throwing the piece of fabric over his shoulder and with a graceful sway, he walked toward Riordan. To the asylum with her! Another sigh brushing away - it was quite the stressful day today - he put a talon-like hand upon Riordan's shoulder, yet still keeping a distance between himself and the boy. With a bold and slightly humorous tone, he solemnly said, "No Riordan. You both need the asylum."
Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake. - Victor Hugo
You cannot stop poverty by giving the poor money. - P.J. O'Rourke
Acelin, marquis de Renarde - Thirty and nine - widower - High class
Dr. Eric Foreman: I think your argument is specious. Dr. Gregory House: I think your tie is ugly.
Joined: Sept 2006 Posts: 38 Location: In creepy alleyways
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #22 on Dec 28, 2006, 11:27pm »
Ziganna's eyes shifted as a response to the talking and speech going on behind her head. A smirk was placed upon her face. Her dark raven hair was settled on her forehead covering her eyes that indeed were clinically insane. As if the Gypsy fair wasn't an asylum! "Well! Someone actually has common sense in this place! Thank god!" she said with a chuckle. Ziganna's voice was filled with arrogance and laughter. "If I were you, I would drop the dagger because it's not right to play with them" she said. She had indeed more then just two daggers on her. She softly bent town knowing that Renarde still had a strong hold on her collar. She pulled out a sharp knife that cut her ankle slightly when she pulled it out of it's strapping. She held it with the other dagger in hand that she held very tightly. "It seems Riordan that you have the same desire to watch me die as my greatest pleasure would be to watch you." she smiled greatly at the thought. "Ah! Marvelous! To see your limbs detached would be a dream come true" she said softly but loud enough to hear. She felt herself being flung but her legs could not catch the ground quickly enough. Softly sliding on the ground she knelt on her knees and the ebon hair that was flowing over her face was hiding that smile. Ziganna took took the knife that was still in her hands. She stabbed it savagely by Riordans feet. She flung to her feet like a cat and flipped her hair to land on her back. She was bony and looked fragile but of course that wasn't really a problem. Ziganna had been trained in the cunning ways. She was not letting that small aspect get in the way of her revenge. The blade stuck in the ground ready to have someone claim it. "Let's hope you know how to use it. For it is not a toy my dear" said the gypsy smirking. "I dare you!" she yelled with her head slightly flung backward exposing her copper colored neck. Her black hair flowed behind it and somewhat over it. She lifted her leg to reveal five knives in a row strapped to her legs. She grabbed one of them made a soft mark on herself, not piercing the skin but tracing an "X" as a bullseye for him to shoot at. She couldn't help it laughs were released from her mouth as she thought what a disgrace he was to even be of the male persuasion. He had not the strength of a man in her eyes but all the arrogance of one. Her dark brown eyes were settle on him and it seemed that they all had a source of weaponry now. What a challenge this was! This is what Ziganna lived for and she didn't mind admitting it. Her whole life revolved around tricks, sharp turns, and mostly violence. She grew to love it. Even though robbing wasn't her specialty in being a 'thief' violence surely was. She adored the sight of blood particularly coming from the men whom disgust her so. She spat at the complete thought of it. She awaited the wounds she would receive and smiled her devilish grin. "I think you too need an asylum monsieur" she said still not looking at him the man who once held her by the color. "You would be wise sir...to leave well enough alone" said she.
The gypsy, Ziganna had not a happy life but a violent one. The sliver flames that surrounded her brought her the beauty on earth she had never seen. The red flames resembled the destruction she had seen, and perhaps caused in her own liking. Bearing many a persons blood on her very hands. Ziganna was very well now surrounded by red flames at this moment. She had nothing on her mind but blood. Ah yes. It was what her life revolves around. That knife was upon her and she did not care if she did die. Arrogance filled her soul as well as the pride that kept her standing, breathing, alive in general. She simply didn't understand why men were so disgusting. They almost always found a way to get on her nerves and make her sick. That is why she wanted to stab a hole in Riordan's heart watching the blood pour from him. Smirking as she thought of it.
Imagining it will not satisfy my lust for long
It was more then true. Her insane mind was simply murdering her. She wanted to see Riordan scream in pain. To see him bleed...to be more then an arrogant fool. "Well?" she asked. Her neck still was stretched to give him the perfect aim. Her patience was wearing off and she couldn't take the suspense much longer...unless she wanted to kill herself.
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #23 on Jan 13, 2007, 9:59am »
Sheridan rigidly stood and the world was slowly spinning about him.
It was as if the earth beneath him was rotating not on its axis, but twirling uncontrollably to the will of some unknown Power; however, he knew it was just an earthquake of his soul. And prideful as he was, he did not lean on the "friend" for support. Instead, he concentrated on realigning the shadow of the gypsy girl and her tangible form, for two images spun around, fickle like sea. He felt dreadfully ill. Hands shook violently, color was draining into a parchment yellow as his thin lips became pale. Suddenly, a knife was dug into the earth by his feet. The sun danced radiantly upon the steel. His eyes had been in shadow until then and as he lifted his gaze to the bird, the once brilliant, guile light was now a dull blue. An X was drawn upon her neck. She was challenging him to take another life. She was provoking him to cross that line, to see white eyes roll and the blood rush and vomit onto this sordid ground - a fitting death he thought sardonically, raising his eyebrows. Lightly, he licked his lips. The gleam on the blade caught his grey-blue eyes once more and he looked from the dagger to the gypsy girl. The harangue of taunts continued, but they vanished into the interminable, echoing plains of his mind. Sweat rolled down Sheridan. He turned a sickly white. The pupils in his eyes vibrated. His whole self trembled. And not because he could not do it, but because he could. And he wanted to. Long, long ago, something had been lost in time, a hole, a fragment floating in the engulfing ocean. And he felt as if stabbing the bird, clipping its wings and amputating its head would bring that fragment back, would move the tide of the ocean back to shore.
Because long ago, his name was not Riordan Alverton, but a more notorious name, one that passed on everyone's lips, was gossiped about and spat upon the sordid ground. And long ago, those very eyes had seen blood flow like a cataract, the eyes of white death and the familiar nostalgic, melodic voice of a young girl...screaming...
The memory fell in little raindrops onto the surface of the mind, reflecting an obscure past that rippled as it was touched. And the ripple bounced off the knife that stabbed the earth and the ripple echoed in that interminable plain of his mind and reverberating back was a deformed, hideous smile.
"I told you once little girl," uttered a rough guttural softly. Eyes gazed upon the small, petite figure, the raven with the ebony feathers, but the eyes were different. Nothing was there in the eyes. It was as if a fire had ignited wildly from the abyss of his soul and with its gluttonous nature, it began to lick and devour the other selves. Then, the smog of that flame rose, it's poisonous fingers climbing up, up until it reached the eyes and with a jubilant thrust of its hands, it spread ash. And the ash danced. It twirled and waltzed in the azure blue of those eyes until it came gently down. And like the snow, it accumulated into piles until the blue cannot be seen, until it was buried; however, it was not snow. It was not the purity of white which covers the dismal Autumn ground. It was a black sheet - thick, toxic, a smoldering of sin. Now those azure eyes were an ash-dark shade. Slowly, the arm was brought up. The sun shone brilliantly on the scars. Sunlight danced upon his pale skin, over the valleys of those vestiges of pain where the blade had been held like a bow to the violin, anticipating with a trembling furor the release of music, the release of agony that would follow when the bow, the blade, sliced over the strings. Crisscrossing, intersecting, stand alone scars - it was a gallery of chaos. It was a disturbing piece of art, prominent because of its deformity.
And suddenly, the creature, the being, smiled. And it was a terrifying smile for it held all the sadistic joy found in the pain of others. "Seeing my limbs detached? You make a feeble argument. How can you bring true harm to me? Not when death - death! - has always claimed me!" exclaimed a voice jubilantly. It laughed, a horrible laugh because it was unnatural. The voice was conducted by the crackling, nefarious hearts of men, which trembled and shook the air with a heinous power in its spitting sparks. It was demonic. "I create my own scars! Your benevolent heart doesn't need to give me an X to aim at or a life to take for my own pleasure. You're not even worth to be murdered! Not when I have my own skin to pierce. Not when I have my own heart to take. Not when I still have something to give to death!"
And it was not Sheridan. It was not Raphael or Riordan or the terrified child. It was another self. And there was a reason why the blade awakened him. There was a reason why the cut, the sliding of steel on skin seduced him. There was a reason why he was named Knives. So he grabbed the knife and raised it above his head, looked at it with caressing pleasure as the sun reflected brightly off its steel surface. The creature was no longer human. He was a monster. For he did not aim at the French man or the gypsy girl. He did not plan on taking another life to express the pain that ignited like fire in him and wretchedly stripped all humanity from every forest inch of his soul. Instead, he took that pain, the torment of Riordan's agonizing past, and with it he gripped the knife and as if cutting through the fabric of time with a rush of rancorous memories, he stabbed visciously into Riordan's arm.
And Riordan's arm bleed, it rose from the pierced skin and the plush crimson gathered like a lake around the blade until the blade was taken away and the blood then gushed and slithered wildly across the valley of scars like the flooding rain. And more skin was cut, pierced. Crisscrossing, intersecting, stand alone cuts they became mouths with ruby lips that were released from their duress of silence and spoke the pain of Riordan. For that was the function of Knives. To release torment when it was at its greatest, to live through the memory that overcame Sheridan and the others and he did so with a knife, a blade, through the suffering of others. Killing the gypsy girl was not enough - she was worthless to him. Self-mutation on the other hand, was a personal vendetta. And all the while as blood flowed from Riordan's pale arms, as mouths opened and screamed, as the valley of scars was flooded with red rain, Knives laughed. "Leave that X for another day, for your own hands," said the caustic voice to the pitiful girl. You're not worth it. Another laugh, another soul shattering note which transcended all the iniquities of the world. He laughed...
As tears rolled down those ash-grey eyes. For eventually, one must always return. The tide must always come back to the sea so the memory passed away, hidden in the engulfing fathoms of the ocean.
The knife dropped and clattered onto the ground, covered with blood and pain. The creature held his arm, was slouched over trying to support himself. His breathing was labored. Sweat, tears and blood was mingled together - the ink used to write he story of his life. For the cuts and stabs were not random. They aligned themselves perfectly with the scars found on a buried body who slept peacefully in a grave, unaware that what had happened to her had just been reenacted - but on the skin of the one who put her there. And the head of the creature lifted. No longer were his eyes an ash-grey hue, but a dull, dark azure that resembled a lofty sky. He did not faint at the sight of blood. He did not collapse from the throbbing torment that pulsed throughout his body with each heartbeat. Words were merely spoken with a voice. That voice had been lost for three days.
"Whatever I say, whatever I do, it is all the play of a mere shadow, drifting among the graveyards and drowning in the whimsical hope of living as eveyone else. For that matter, I am one as well."
Alverton, Riordan - Three and twenty - Single - Middle lower
Common sense is in spite of, not as the result of education. - Victor Hugo
Joined: Sept 2006 Posts: 29 Location: Not EVERYWHERE. Impossible.
Re: The Cat, the Bird and the Fastidious Fox « Reply #24 on Jan 21, 2007, 12:58pm »
Marquis de Renarde was notorious for being a snakes of sorts in the grass. From his colleges to his underlings to those who merely knew his name he had inspired the incentive for action out of fear and terror rather than respect and reverence. For working with him or merely being acquainted with him was like weaving through tall grass encumbered by the stalking, sly presence of a snake. Like a snake's fangs his venom was held in his sardonic words, which smoothly slithered from his tongue. When he bit, it was through caustic remarks, which gradually broke down one's immunity with poisonous, degrading inferiority. However, it was a snake with a fox's cleverness who survived not by guile betrayals and iniquities, but by quick intelligence. For the man was physically weak. An illness from birth always plagued him; nevertheless, his whole existence personified the philosophy of "brain over brawn." Instead of exercising his body, he exercised his brain, his mind. And with a fox's vulpine eyes and a snake's toxic he fermented his power and he became a morose, emotionless man based on instinct and the meticulous observations of his surroundings. As a result, not many elements surprised him. Not many situations affected him disturbingly. Within almost forty years of living and working in a position of authority, he had heard every excuse, seen every iniquity and the judgment that had passed.
He raised his eyebrows and his countenance furrowed when Riordan raised that knife over his head and stabbed himself. As the knife slashed and cut and pierced the skin of the deformed man, Renarde grimaced. Though he had been in a position for authority and with his own eyes had seen each corner of the underworld the sudden random action of Riordan flabbergasted him for a moment. For although Renarde knew little of the young man his first impression of Riordan was of an emotionless, mature intellect who knew his priorities and responsibilities in the world (after all, he had refused the generous amount of money Renarde lent him). Cutting himself was surprising even...out of character. Vulpine eyes narrowed in profound thought and he wondered. He replayed the whole scenario from his entrance to the palette of personalities that had been painted across Riordan, the different voices that had portrayed him and he knew that his last words were painfully true. Riordan did belong in an asylum. That can be trouble sighed Renarde.
"Marquis de Renarde...I want to go home..."
Well, I don't. But the voice, for once was familiar. It fit the face. The eye brows were raised once more.
"All right. Let's go."
A promise to a friend of a friend after all must be kept. And that promise bounded him to the young man standing dumbly next to his and at the moment he would bend to the service asked of him. The two were strangers in the most part connected only be need and an oath. Afterward, when Riordan no longer needed support that thin bond would be cut without sensibility. So Renarde walked toward the young man and tried to awaken him with a push of his talon-like hands; but like an adamant statue Riordan did not move. He did not stir. Curiously, the fox looked into his eyes. He saw absolutely nothing. If not for the thin breathing Renarde would had presumed him dead for the eyes were a nocturnal night instead of an azure sky and the pale skin a frost-bite cold. And the statue bled. The red crimson river snaking through the valley of his scars and it drooped to the sordid ground with a musical beat - a disturbing music of its own. For now, Riordan would need support. Renarde grimaced at the thought of touching blood. Already its putrid, thick scent began to spread poisonously throughout the air and like two fat fingers, it rudely invaded his senses. Not that Renarde was disturbed by blood. During his long years of life he had seen enough crime scenes and violent situations. Nevertheless, at such frail health the scent added more toxic to his own system - however, he would have to endure it. Surprisingly though, as he gave yet another encouraging pat to Riordan's shoulder and told him once more that they were going the legs of the dead corpse moved.
The eyes however were focused on the grave ground. Fearing that the creature would sooner collapse, Renarde gave the young man some support, ignoring the bloody arm that draped across his shoulder and stained his obsessively neat, black clothing (which he would burn later that evening). However, something was probing his mind, his memory. He had forgotten something didn't he? A loose end untied? What was it?
"Oh yes, that matter," he quietly mumbled. Renarde did not turn around, he would address it with his back, and he deliberately spoke with a slow pace as if the understanding of his words would sink in - nevertheless, he didn't expect much from its attention span. "I suggest not doing anything rash," he began. His voice was nonchalant, almost a casual remark despite the wavering hints of threat and ominous premonition that shimmered beneath. "For I've other matters to attend to and I've no time to waste with entertaining and humoring your insanity. Be civilized for once. And if you wish to make a point, well." Renarde paused. His vulpine eyes looked upon the young man who was hanging like a corpse over his shoulder except the eyes were not of white death, but of a dark, nocturnal sky. And for once during that whole confrontation he turned his head and looked around him. Grey eyes looked lazily at the young gypsy girl and held her eyes firmly, his mouth a rigid frown and his countenance a mask of stolid indifference. "If you wish to make a point, your efforts are futile. The boy is unconscious. And I. Simply. Do. Not. Care." After all, he had yet to be polite. Like all gentleman, he should end their pleasant...conversation with a sincere farewell and parting words - of course, sincerity within Renarde was merely a piece of soft hay in a pile of abrasive needles. So he parted with patronizing advice. And he stopped in his walk once more.
"Oh, and the money," he said with an enlightening yet bored tone as if remembering at that moment that two bags of small fortunes were acting as the working hands of fate. Quickly, he searched the breathing corpse next to him and produced the jingling seduction of coins. One was his wallet - this he hid in his pocket with an indifferent air - and the other...the other. Well, Marquis de Renarde did not know immediately who it belonged to, but through his own investigation or through the interrogation of Riordan he could probably find out. He had turned his back to her again, but did not turn once more. He figured he can be polite for one time in his life and he had already used that ticket. The money was held loosely in his talon-like hands and he held it up for the gypsy to see. "The money," he said emotionlessly. "Will go to its rightful owner. I myself and another. If you would be so kind as to tell me whom it belonged to, I can assure you that it will go to he or she. If not then I have my own ways to find out. For example, he or she is an aristocrat as they are the only people with enough money to waste."
And though Renarde was an aristocrat he believed that wasting was a sin.
OOC: Renarde, you owe me for writing this post - Riordan.
Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake. - Victor Hugo
You cannot stop poverty by giving the poor money. - P.J. O'Rourke
Acelin, marquis de Renarde - Thirty and nine - widower - High class
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