In a world less known for its heroes and more known for its actors, there is something terribly amiss. Idolization of those born out of fiction is all well and good, but the fact remains that there are heroes that exist in the world who are ignored on a constant basis. They don't have the powers of Superman, the resources of Batman, the ragtag team of compatriots like the X-Men, but they walk by us in stores, restaurants, and the streets every day, yet not a single glance is thrown their way. Ian thought all these things as he walked down the halls of the memorial for fallen soldiers. He wished he had the gifts, the courage, to become like those who will be eternally remembered in their stone tombs. His eyes and fingers traced across every name and achievement, oblivious to the shaking heads of old women who thought he was being disrespectful and the silent approval of old veterans who thought he was acting appropriately. His mind was full of great ideas, fantasies where he lived to return to accolades, parades, Presidents giving him medals of valor, but he also thought of dying gloriously in battle, a firefight or saving a group of stranded orphans from a fire maybe. Ian looked around for a moment, noticing his friends had wandered away and were watching a video that was playing the storming of the beach at Normandy over and over. As he made his way over, a small hand latched onto his and, surprised at the feel of the small, warm hand, he looked down into a pair of shimmering blue eyes.
The child had to be no more than five and stared at Ian with tears brimming but not falling. Courageous, Ian thought, as he knelt down to be at eye level with the young boy. He asked the child what was wrong and learned that he lost his parents. The child was eerily calm about it, but Ian knew that the fear inside the young man would eventually lead him into a mistake, in fact, it already had, he was talking to a stranger. Ian comforted the boy as much as he could and glanced at his friends, noting that they haven't seen what was transpiring yet. Ian gave the child a comforting pat on the shoulder and said he would help him find his parents. As they moved through the memorial hall, the child kept glancing around, eyes searching the crowd for his missing parents, while Ian searched as well. This would be his moment of courage, he kept thinking. He walked the young man through the crowd, searching, but never finding the parents. The child, Ian could tell, was beginning to lose some of that bravery he had before. Ian told the little blue eyed boy that they should get out of the crowd for a minute so the child could calm down. He agreed and they stepped into a small room off the hall. As Ian closed the door, he felt his hand tremble as he latched the lock tightly. He turned and faced the young boy, who glanced at him with growing alarm, knowing, as he approached him, that today, along with all his yesterdays and tomorrows, he would never be on that wall. He was one of the monsters those who died had fought against.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Commentary: English vs. the World (of Degree Programs)
I was taking my daily perusal through CNN.com this morning and saw an article about why possible engineers are getting English degrees. Oh! Wonderful, maybe this will say how awesome English is!, I thought with childlike flights of fancy. My dreams quickly faded into the nether region where unrealized dreams go as I read through the entire five pages of the article. All in all, the article was about how people are dropping out of hard majors and switching to easier ones. That is correct, my friends, enemies, and friendemies, people are switching from the HARD degree programs and into the EASY ones.
Now, I am not going to downplay the sciences. It takes tremendous skill, willpower, and intelligence to make it through any of the sciences, maths, etc. When a person graduates with a degree in engineering, they should be proud that all the hard work they did will pay off. The problem I have is the assumption that English is not a hard degree to get. As a graduate of Buffalo State University with my B.A. in English Literature, I must humbly disagree with the "easy" label given to my major.
On the surface, you can see why people would say that English is not a hard major. You have no math, no sciences, no history, no physical requirements what-so-ever, and so on. While we aren't blasting out multi-line equations or creating medicines that will cure whatever the cast of the Jersey Shore is infected with, we are learning to be articulate, well read, researchers, and yes, scholars in the history of the world. How are you scholars in history, don't you just sit in the house and read books?! First, books require no power source, so we can take them *gasp* outside! Secondly, history is written as well as passed down orally or through artifacts. It takes a command of language, any language, to tell the tale of a people in a way that makes people think you know what you're talking about. Research needs to be done to study history, which includes diving through book after book. Thirdly, there is a little thing, very hard to know, since only those who have taken the test of one thousand swords can learn about... books have been written longer than any one person has been alive.
With the study of Literature, a student delves into history through those such as Ernest Hemingway, William Shakespeare, William Beckford, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Henry Fielding, Miguel De Cervantes, and Ludovico Ariosto, just to name a few. We take in history at a personal level, where many of these writers have written with certain aspects of current (for them) society influencing them. History, life, and art blend in the words each puts to the page. Morality and ethics are explored, dissected, and reimagined. Take away literature from the history of man, just as if you took away mathematics, and the world would be drastically different. Engineering, Mathematics, the Sciences, English, Art, Music, and all the other degrees are needed in some aspect and no one is more important than the other. Before you rip apart another degree program as being less important than yours, take a moment and think before you speak. That is something I wish that the reporter from CNN.com did before publishing their article.
Now, I am not going to downplay the sciences. It takes tremendous skill, willpower, and intelligence to make it through any of the sciences, maths, etc. When a person graduates with a degree in engineering, they should be proud that all the hard work they did will pay off. The problem I have is the assumption that English is not a hard degree to get. As a graduate of Buffalo State University with my B.A. in English Literature, I must humbly disagree with the "easy" label given to my major.
On the surface, you can see why people would say that English is not a hard major. You have no math, no sciences, no history, no physical requirements what-so-ever, and so on. While we aren't blasting out multi-line equations or creating medicines that will cure whatever the cast of the Jersey Shore is infected with, we are learning to be articulate, well read, researchers, and yes, scholars in the history of the world. How are you scholars in history, don't you just sit in the house and read books?! First, books require no power source, so we can take them *gasp* outside! Secondly, history is written as well as passed down orally or through artifacts. It takes a command of language, any language, to tell the tale of a people in a way that makes people think you know what you're talking about. Research needs to be done to study history, which includes diving through book after book. Thirdly, there is a little thing, very hard to know, since only those who have taken the test of one thousand swords can learn about... books have been written longer than any one person has been alive.
With the study of Literature, a student delves into history through those such as Ernest Hemingway, William Shakespeare, William Beckford, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Henry Fielding, Miguel De Cervantes, and Ludovico Ariosto, just to name a few. We take in history at a personal level, where many of these writers have written with certain aspects of current (for them) society influencing them. History, life, and art blend in the words each puts to the page. Morality and ethics are explored, dissected, and reimagined. Take away literature from the history of man, just as if you took away mathematics, and the world would be drastically different. Engineering, Mathematics, the Sciences, English, Art, Music, and all the other degrees are needed in some aspect and no one is more important than the other. Before you rip apart another degree program as being less important than yours, take a moment and think before you speak. That is something I wish that the reporter from CNN.com did before publishing their article.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Writing: Moment in Time - Down the Rabbit Hole
He glanced over his shoulder, scratching absently at his arm, feeling the skin peel off with every movement of his fingers. He needed to fix what was wrong with him, though he couldn't pinpoint what was wrong. The world looked fine, what with its undulating sky, flame-like grasses, and monstrosities dressed in suits and ties. He felt the blood in his body flow out through his arm, watching it seek out a new home, perhaps one without a window that unexpectedly gets installed. He wondered, as he walked, what would replace the blood, but that thought soon left his mind as he saw a man staring at him. He couldn't tell who the man was, but the horns, tail, and pitchfork gave him some hints. He climbed up the sidewalk that tried to form into a roller-coaster loop and saw his destination. The only problem was that he had to walk through a large, milling swarm of those insurance agent-looking monsters. He shuddered at the thought of their insect-like arms and hands reaching out and touching, grabbing him, maybe thrusting pens and papers at him, begging in voices that sound like pigs stuck inside of a gristmill for him to sign off on a one-hundred percent profit venture. He wanted nothing to do with that, he only wanted to fill the emptiness inside himself since his blood voided its lease to his body.
Straightening his shoulders to the point where he feels his shoulders burst out of his leather jacket and form bone and sinew wings, he wishes that they were strong enough to lift him over those parasites, watching as they begin to devour each other and not a few of them begin to procreate right on the street, letting the ground that rolls beneath them as a sexual helper. He folds his wings in and squints his eyes, feeling the jelly inside them press against the inside of his head. He takes a step forward that shakes eyes and ground equally, alerting the mass in front of him to his presence, though they don't make a move. He continues walking forward, his arm itching so much he feels on fire, he feels so much on fire that he thinks he might be on fire. He begins to think how good fire would be to help him pass these giant bugs, but then again, behind on fire like the eye of Sauron won't help him here, he would only burn to ash before he could get what he came here for. He begins to pick up his speed, rushing into the pile as a linebacker through an opposing team. He feels hands and claws and tentacles and other appendages he can't even name grasp at him while all the time he hopes none of their reproductive organs search out those sensitive areas on his body. He drops to a knee only a few feet from the door, but his body turns to liquid as he flows over those creatures, drowning them in his own fluids, fluids he is surprised he has seeing as his blood probably bought a flat somewhere in downtown Buffalo at a reasonable rent in a good school district. As his body regains form, he flashes his wings in a flourish and steps through the door. Not opening it, he steps through it.
Once inside, he enters a land of gold and marble, almost as if he had entered heaven...or some form of high-end brothel. Maybe a brothel outside of Vegas or Amsterdam. He walks through those gold halls and up stairs and down stairs, sometimes he walks in circles, and sometimes he doesn't walk at all, but floats on a cloud of silk towards the upper reaches of this heavenly brothel. He finally reaches the top, the walls giggling at him and he bowing in return. He steps to the door and knocks politely, allowing the door to wake up and realize he is there and open. Once open, he walks through and steps towards the gentleman who rests upon a cross, looking around him with a bored expression, like a man who has beaten all his PS3 games and now has nothing to do. Once the cross-bound man notices him, he smiles and beckons him forward the best a man who is crucified can do. The cross-man points to a small bronze box and he opens it, taking the small sword from the box and sliding it against his arm where he scratched the hole in. The world suddenly jerks and flattens. He watches with amazement as the walls begin to peal away, almost like a Silent Hill game, and are replaced with torn wallpaper in a puke green color. The crucified man is suddenly no longer crucified and sits upon a worn and torn couch, boiling something over a small bunsen burner. Once the world straights into its hopelessness that he realized he was trying to escape, he glances at the man on the couch who looks up to him and, with glazed over eyes, says, "You want to go back down the rabbit hole?"
Straightening his shoulders to the point where he feels his shoulders burst out of his leather jacket and form bone and sinew wings, he wishes that they were strong enough to lift him over those parasites, watching as they begin to devour each other and not a few of them begin to procreate right on the street, letting the ground that rolls beneath them as a sexual helper. He folds his wings in and squints his eyes, feeling the jelly inside them press against the inside of his head. He takes a step forward that shakes eyes and ground equally, alerting the mass in front of him to his presence, though they don't make a move. He continues walking forward, his arm itching so much he feels on fire, he feels so much on fire that he thinks he might be on fire. He begins to think how good fire would be to help him pass these giant bugs, but then again, behind on fire like the eye of Sauron won't help him here, he would only burn to ash before he could get what he came here for. He begins to pick up his speed, rushing into the pile as a linebacker through an opposing team. He feels hands and claws and tentacles and other appendages he can't even name grasp at him while all the time he hopes none of their reproductive organs search out those sensitive areas on his body. He drops to a knee only a few feet from the door, but his body turns to liquid as he flows over those creatures, drowning them in his own fluids, fluids he is surprised he has seeing as his blood probably bought a flat somewhere in downtown Buffalo at a reasonable rent in a good school district. As his body regains form, he flashes his wings in a flourish and steps through the door. Not opening it, he steps through it.
Once inside, he enters a land of gold and marble, almost as if he had entered heaven...or some form of high-end brothel. Maybe a brothel outside of Vegas or Amsterdam. He walks through those gold halls and up stairs and down stairs, sometimes he walks in circles, and sometimes he doesn't walk at all, but floats on a cloud of silk towards the upper reaches of this heavenly brothel. He finally reaches the top, the walls giggling at him and he bowing in return. He steps to the door and knocks politely, allowing the door to wake up and realize he is there and open. Once open, he walks through and steps towards the gentleman who rests upon a cross, looking around him with a bored expression, like a man who has beaten all his PS3 games and now has nothing to do. Once the cross-bound man notices him, he smiles and beckons him forward the best a man who is crucified can do. The cross-man points to a small bronze box and he opens it, taking the small sword from the box and sliding it against his arm where he scratched the hole in. The world suddenly jerks and flattens. He watches with amazement as the walls begin to peal away, almost like a Silent Hill game, and are replaced with torn wallpaper in a puke green color. The crucified man is suddenly no longer crucified and sits upon a worn and torn couch, boiling something over a small bunsen burner. Once the world straights into its hopelessness that he realized he was trying to escape, he glances at the man on the couch who looks up to him and, with glazed over eyes, says, "You want to go back down the rabbit hole?"
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Poetry: We Will Not Die!
Oration,
Exploitation,
Innovation,
Reclamation.
Words stolen and
sold for pennies on the dollar.
Thoughts murdered
for the sake of prosperity.
When the voices fade,
the song is lost.
When the singers leave,
the show is over.
Raise your voices,
as well as your pens.
Shout to the heavens,
'We will not die! '
Ovation,
Exploration,
Intuition,
Imagination.
Break out from the bindings
and free your minds.
Write as if possessed and
sing as your heart would break.
Life is waiting
for you to take hold.
I am waiting on the other side,
baring my soul through my writing.
Exploitation,
Innovation,
Reclamation.
Words stolen and
sold for pennies on the dollar.
Thoughts murdered
for the sake of prosperity.
When the voices fade,
the song is lost.
When the singers leave,
the show is over.
Raise your voices,
as well as your pens.
Shout to the heavens,
'We will not die! '
Ovation,
Exploration,
Intuition,
Imagination.
Break out from the bindings
and free your minds.
Write as if possessed and
sing as your heart would break.
Life is waiting
for you to take hold.
I am waiting on the other side,
baring my soul through my writing.
Poetry: We Can Start Over (All We Need To Do Is Hit Restart)
I showed you how much I cared
to the point I did things I never dared.
What good did it do me
when every night you're in the arms of another?
If you want me to abandon you
tell me and I will let you go alone.
Don't act as if nothing is wrong
when you play these games.
Let's just say no,
this was all a misunderstanding.
Let's backtrack a bit,
and let me introduce myself again.
We'll get off to a better start,
one where words were never said.
Maybe then I can delude myself,
forgetting I ever liked you more than a friend.
to the point I did things I never dared.
What good did it do me
when every night you're in the arms of another?
If you want me to abandon you
tell me and I will let you go alone.
Don't act as if nothing is wrong
when you play these games.
Let's just say no,
this was all a misunderstanding.
Let's backtrack a bit,
and let me introduce myself again.
We'll get off to a better start,
one where words were never said.
Maybe then I can delude myself,
forgetting I ever liked you more than a friend.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Poetry: Giving in to it All
Cold metal on soft skin,
clawing at my life,
seeking my heart,
but it's already gone.
Given to another
for safe keeping,
held in security deposit,
where I can't hurt it more.
If I am giving in,
thinking the battle lost,
I could let the metal in,
but the war hasn't ended
and my heart still beats,
hidden in hands,
gentle and loving.
Defiance raised like a flag,
scars shown that they tried,
but I won.
clawing at my life,
seeking my heart,
but it's already gone.
Given to another
for safe keeping,
held in security deposit,
where I can't hurt it more.
If I am giving in,
thinking the battle lost,
I could let the metal in,
but the war hasn't ended
and my heart still beats,
hidden in hands,
gentle and loving.
Defiance raised like a flag,
scars shown that they tried,
but I won.
Poetry: Yes is the Answer (Until We Are Famous)
Yes, give me your heart
and everything attached.
My kiss in no magic spell,
but its potency is unmatched.
Yes, give me all you have
and everything in between.
I will rain ecstasy upon you,
likes of which you have never seen.
Yes, just say yes
and I will give what you need.
You will tremble at my touch;
from my hands you will feed.
Yes, you like it my way
and you will never leave.
You know I am what you want,
only you are afraid to believe.
Yes, take my hand
and walk away with me.
I will never betray you,
until our names light up the marquee.
and everything attached.
My kiss in no magic spell,
but its potency is unmatched.
Yes, give me all you have
and everything in between.
I will rain ecstasy upon you,
likes of which you have never seen.
Yes, just say yes
and I will give what you need.
You will tremble at my touch;
from my hands you will feed.
Yes, you like it my way
and you will never leave.
You know I am what you want,
only you are afraid to believe.
Yes, take my hand
and walk away with me.
I will never betray you,
until our names light up the marquee.
Writing: Moment in Time - Temporary Respite
He sat and watched the world through the double-pained glass, feeling the heat of the vent mix with the chill outside, his thoughts as chilly as the weather. The conversations around him buzzing and echoing in his head, blotting out thought and tease his attention in irritating seductiveness. The voices grating on his nerves as he turned and glanced at the world inside, hidden from the elements. Cold coffee. Hot vent. Tan hat. Checkered jacket. Nothing but impressions skitter across his mind. His brain reaching out, grasping, trying to hold to something, but, like trying to hold grains of sand, they do nothing but slide through his fingers.
He stands, feeling the years press down on his shoulders, giving him a dread sense of mortality which sends his mind deep into a chasm to which he wishes would close and remain gone forever. He wonders what is on the other side, what awaits him as he draws his final breath and leaps into the darkness. He wants to think that there would be a light and a deeper understanding of the universe, but the feeling that there is nothing but the darkness and eternal loneliness beyond the human understanding intrudes into his fantasy. His steps are slow, calculated, as he walks to the door, as if his feet were trying to savor each step he takes. He can feel each step echoing through his body as if it would be the last one he takes. The cold handle of the door in his hand chills his entire body, mixing with the heat in his blood which is drained away as it gives in to the cold.
The sudden rush of cold, cleansing him deep into his soul, washing away the dreams and nightmares indiscriminately. The sun washing over him as he steps through the door, feeling the ground fade from beneath him as he imagines himself crossing the chasm. The sun strikes him and his eyes close with a languid pace, trapping the light inside his body, allowing it to reignite his soul from the cold flame that had grown there. He reaches into his jacket, slides a smoke between his lips and hears the click of a lighter and the momentary heat of a flame until he breathes in slowly. His eyes open and he takes another step, then another, continuing until he passes his destination. He simply walks, beyond where he had gone before and continues, his thoughts finally solidifying with each step he takes from the world he knew. He knows he can't stay away forever, but for this moment, this single moment, he is free from himself.
He stands, feeling the years press down on his shoulders, giving him a dread sense of mortality which sends his mind deep into a chasm to which he wishes would close and remain gone forever. He wonders what is on the other side, what awaits him as he draws his final breath and leaps into the darkness. He wants to think that there would be a light and a deeper understanding of the universe, but the feeling that there is nothing but the darkness and eternal loneliness beyond the human understanding intrudes into his fantasy. His steps are slow, calculated, as he walks to the door, as if his feet were trying to savor each step he takes. He can feel each step echoing through his body as if it would be the last one he takes. The cold handle of the door in his hand chills his entire body, mixing with the heat in his blood which is drained away as it gives in to the cold.
The sudden rush of cold, cleansing him deep into his soul, washing away the dreams and nightmares indiscriminately. The sun washing over him as he steps through the door, feeling the ground fade from beneath him as he imagines himself crossing the chasm. The sun strikes him and his eyes close with a languid pace, trapping the light inside his body, allowing it to reignite his soul from the cold flame that had grown there. He reaches into his jacket, slides a smoke between his lips and hears the click of a lighter and the momentary heat of a flame until he breathes in slowly. His eyes open and he takes another step, then another, continuing until he passes his destination. He simply walks, beyond where he had gone before and continues, his thoughts finally solidifying with each step he takes from the world he knew. He knows he can't stay away forever, but for this moment, this single moment, he is free from himself.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Poetry: Now is the Time
Grieving time in Buffalo,
for the lost who went before.
Fear of what will happen
and what fate has in store.
Time doesn't slow,
nor does it abate.
The chance to live is now,
we must act before it's too late.
Where will we go
and what will we do?
Will we hate or love,
will be we proud with what we grown into?
Now is the chance
that others have not had.
With my heart in my hard I offer it,
life is too short to live it mad.
Give your heart and soul,
body and mind.
I give mine freely,
to a woman who is like Kind.
Her name is Hope,
though that's not really her name.
She is my guiding star,
for my raging heart she did tame.
for the lost who went before.
Fear of what will happen
and what fate has in store.
Time doesn't slow,
nor does it abate.
The chance to live is now,
we must act before it's too late.
Where will we go
and what will we do?
Will we hate or love,
will be we proud with what we grown into?
Now is the chance
that others have not had.
With my heart in my hard I offer it,
life is too short to live it mad.
Give your heart and soul,
body and mind.
I give mine freely,
to a woman who is like Kind.
Her name is Hope,
though that's not really her name.
She is my guiding star,
for my raging heart she did tame.
Critical Film: A Review of Final
Final
Starring:
* Dennis Leary
* Hope Davis
* Jim Gaffigan
* Marin Hinkle
Director:
* Campbell Scott
In a surprising turn in the dramatic before the days of "Rescue Me", Dennis Leary puts in a top-notch effort in this small time independent film about a man who wakes from a coma and his sanity is being evaluated by a doctor played by Hope Davis. The film work is simple and clean, as 90% of the film takes place in a single room with brief flashes to the past and a few outdoor shots. The setting seems a bit outdated, but for the budget that the movie was shot with, that's not too pressing on the overall story.
The story takes Leary on a trip through his own troubled past and a relationship that he knows cannot be with Davis. His mind is still troubled as he believes that Davis and the workers at the hospital are out to kill him via lethal injection, but he is not too far off the actual truth. The acting is very well done with Davis and Leary, the connection between them seemingly real. Gaffigan, who surprises in a near-silent role full of compassion simply done through the looks on his face. Leary's girlfriend, played by Miran Hinkle, is played quietly well, though her lack of experience is clearly overshadowed by the talent and screen presence of Leary most of the time.
The plot is quite well done as Leary is able to carry the act of insanity through all of his scenes. The only downfall to the plot is the finale, when everything that he believes was actually true. There was no suspense to it either, as they ruin the reveal by having a talk about it before hand. The relationship aspect is ruined because you know she knew that he was going to do nothing but die. Despite the lack of satisfaction in the third act, the rest of the film is strong enough to carry it through. The film is well done in script and setting. The acting of Davis and Leary is strong and compelling. All in all, the film is worth a watch and wont take too much time out of your day, clocking in at 111 minutes.
Starring:
* Dennis Leary
* Hope Davis
* Jim Gaffigan
* Marin Hinkle
Director:
* Campbell Scott
In a surprising turn in the dramatic before the days of "Rescue Me", Dennis Leary puts in a top-notch effort in this small time independent film about a man who wakes from a coma and his sanity is being evaluated by a doctor played by Hope Davis. The film work is simple and clean, as 90% of the film takes place in a single room with brief flashes to the past and a few outdoor shots. The setting seems a bit outdated, but for the budget that the movie was shot with, that's not too pressing on the overall story.
The story takes Leary on a trip through his own troubled past and a relationship that he knows cannot be with Davis. His mind is still troubled as he believes that Davis and the workers at the hospital are out to kill him via lethal injection, but he is not too far off the actual truth. The acting is very well done with Davis and Leary, the connection between them seemingly real. Gaffigan, who surprises in a near-silent role full of compassion simply done through the looks on his face. Leary's girlfriend, played by Miran Hinkle, is played quietly well, though her lack of experience is clearly overshadowed by the talent and screen presence of Leary most of the time.
The plot is quite well done as Leary is able to carry the act of insanity through all of his scenes. The only downfall to the plot is the finale, when everything that he believes was actually true. There was no suspense to it either, as they ruin the reveal by having a talk about it before hand. The relationship aspect is ruined because you know she knew that he was going to do nothing but die. Despite the lack of satisfaction in the third act, the rest of the film is strong enough to carry it through. The film is well done in script and setting. The acting of Davis and Leary is strong and compelling. All in all, the film is worth a watch and wont take too much time out of your day, clocking in at 111 minutes.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Writing: Playing With Words
When the dreams flow like sap crawling down the callous skin of the Maple, caressing the grooves like a lover, lacing fingers of amber in each fold and crevice. This time is the only time when the jewels that fall from the mind, slipping into the dark in dazzling cascades of shimmering rain, that the mind, grasped tenderly by the blanket of night, can lean back and rest upon the chest of Eternity, feeling the arms of forever and never wrap around it and stop the sand from falling a grain at a time, if only for a brief few hours to us, but not to it - to the mind, the eternal slumber, painted in Dali-Kubrickian motifs, is forever and never, all and nothing, empty yet always complete.
The dreamer, if only a man or woman or child lost in the wheels and gears and gadgets that dictate or control or direct us as they see fit, lives a life or a moment or an eternity searching and finding and losing everything and nothing only to regain it all in the silent and dark or loud and bright mind each night or day or afternoon, letting their head rest upon a pillow or a couch or a table, but in that time, the dreamer dreams - dreams which leave us incomplete, much like interrupted sleep, where a dream goes on, but suddenly
The dreamer, if only a man or woman or child lost in the wheels and gears and gadgets that dictate or control or direct us as they see fit, lives a life or a moment or an eternity searching and finding and losing everything and nothing only to regain it all in the silent and dark or loud and bright mind each night or day or afternoon, letting their head rest upon a pillow or a couch or a table, but in that time, the dreamer dreams - dreams which leave us incomplete, much like interrupted sleep, where a dream goes on, but suddenly
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Critical Film: A Review of Walled In
Walled In
Starring:
* Mischa Barton
* Cameron Bright
* Deborah Kara Unger
* Noam Jenkins
* Pascal Greggory
Director:
* Gilles Paquet-Brenner
The house on haunted hill has people in the waaaaaalls! That was the first thing I thought after the movie started on the uncommon note of drowning a little girl in a tomb of cement. They showed the building designed by renown architect Joseph Malestrazza, the scene of a string of 16 murders of tenants who lived there. I swore that I was looking at the set of House on Haunted Hill the entire time because every view from inside looked like it was borrowed. I almost expected to see the ghost of Chris Kattan open a way out so our lead protagonist, Sam, could escape. The movie revolves around Sam, an engineer sent by her father to lay out the plans to demolish the building…why he didn’t send a team, or assistants..who knows.. She arrives and is greeted by the obsessive Jimmy, whom she finds out just ONE day after arriving, has a massive crush on her and believes she will do anything he says. This apparently doesn’t phase her, nor does the fact that a man almost kills her with an axe, the place was the tomb of 16+ people, nor that Jimmy’s father was one of the victims of the killer.
The films has numerous flaws, but it is shot rather well. The camera angles led you to believe that secrets hid around every corner, along with the lighting, everything was made really creepy. The major problems lay in horror movie judgment and the way the film pulled a 180 from what it was leading up to into something completely different. Sam should have made a call, gotten people out there to help her when things were going crazy. She should have not gone into the room where the bodies were found in the middle of the night with only a single flashlight held by the kid who obviously has a huge and obsessive crush on you. The movie also goes from being a most excellent ghost film into The Babysitter territory with the kid’s obsession leading him to imprison her with Joseph Malestrazza, whom was kept alive and it turned out HE was the murderer! Nooooot a big shocker, seeing as how most of the bodies were found in his walls of his own room in his own building..
Turning from ghosts to love story gone wrong makes no sense given what the viewer is shown before hand, but besides being a little disorienting, the movie isn’t all that bad. The acting is pretty damn good, the camerawork and atmosphere are done very well, but the attempt to fuse two completely separate types of movies into one is where the movie failed. Not bad, but not the best either, that’s why it gets a 3.7 out of 5.
Starring:
* Mischa Barton
* Cameron Bright
* Deborah Kara Unger
* Noam Jenkins
* Pascal Greggory
Director:
* Gilles Paquet-Brenner
The house on haunted hill has people in the waaaaaalls! That was the first thing I thought after the movie started on the uncommon note of drowning a little girl in a tomb of cement. They showed the building designed by renown architect Joseph Malestrazza, the scene of a string of 16 murders of tenants who lived there. I swore that I was looking at the set of House on Haunted Hill the entire time because every view from inside looked like it was borrowed. I almost expected to see the ghost of Chris Kattan open a way out so our lead protagonist, Sam, could escape. The movie revolves around Sam, an engineer sent by her father to lay out the plans to demolish the building…why he didn’t send a team, or assistants..who knows.. She arrives and is greeted by the obsessive Jimmy, whom she finds out just ONE day after arriving, has a massive crush on her and believes she will do anything he says. This apparently doesn’t phase her, nor does the fact that a man almost kills her with an axe, the place was the tomb of 16+ people, nor that Jimmy’s father was one of the victims of the killer.
The films has numerous flaws, but it is shot rather well. The camera angles led you to believe that secrets hid around every corner, along with the lighting, everything was made really creepy. The major problems lay in horror movie judgment and the way the film pulled a 180 from what it was leading up to into something completely different. Sam should have made a call, gotten people out there to help her when things were going crazy. She should have not gone into the room where the bodies were found in the middle of the night with only a single flashlight held by the kid who obviously has a huge and obsessive crush on you. The movie also goes from being a most excellent ghost film into The Babysitter territory with the kid’s obsession leading him to imprison her with Joseph Malestrazza, whom was kept alive and it turned out HE was the murderer! Nooooot a big shocker, seeing as how most of the bodies were found in his walls of his own room in his own building..
Turning from ghosts to love story gone wrong makes no sense given what the viewer is shown before hand, but besides being a little disorienting, the movie isn’t all that bad. The acting is pretty damn good, the camerawork and atmosphere are done very well, but the attempt to fuse two completely separate types of movies into one is where the movie failed. Not bad, but not the best either, that’s why it gets a 3.7 out of 5.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Critical Film: A Review of From Beyond
From Beyond (1986)
Starring:
* Jeffery Combs
* Barbara Crampton
* Ted Sorel
* Ken Foree
Director:
* Stewart Gordon
Adapted from H.P. Lovecraft, From Beyond is a story of mad science gone wrong. A portal to a dimension out of sync with our own is discovered through a certain harmonic pitch which stimulates the pineal gland. The dimension it uncovers though, is full of brain eating monsters! Dr. Pretorius, who was just born to be a mad scientist, creates the device and ends up merging with a monster FROOOOM BEEEYOOOONNNNDDDDD and it’s up to Crawford to prove that the device should be dismantled and that he wasn’t crazy. The movie has a great line after Crawford is committed to the psych ward, “It ate his head…like… a GINGERBREAD MAN!”, I couldn’t help but laugh at that line. The movie itself is about Dr. Crawford, Bubba the police officer, and Dr. McMichaels trying to fight the urge of keeping the machine on and giving into the high it gives you and the evil that is beyond our own world.
The movie is actually quite well done, having an almost Poe-esque feel to parts of it. The monster effects were classic 1980’s, utilizing a lot of gore and plastic faces being melted, but combine the effects with the feeling the set gave, along with the out of this world orchestral score, this movie excelled. It did drag on in parts, when you wish that the movie would stop going for lame quips or unneeded “feeding” scenes, but that was really the only part that dragged it down. The nudity is underplayed by the raw sexual desires that Dr. McMichaels was feeling. It was quite a sight to see her give an unconscious Crawford a handjob while she was dressed as a dominatrix, even for the 80’s! The movie was a good trip through the twisted landscapes Lovecraft has always provided, but the ending was somewhat strange. Crawford was mutating due to his exposure to the device, but McMichaels should be mutating as well, but that was never brought up as the movie ended with her laughing crazily, probably negating the freedom Crawford allowed her to have by sacrificing himself to the other dimension in an eternal struggle between Pretorious and himself. All in all, despite the campy effects, the script, plot, and character acting more than make up for the flaws of this film.
Starring:
* Jeffery Combs
* Barbara Crampton
* Ted Sorel
* Ken Foree
Director:
* Stewart Gordon
Adapted from H.P. Lovecraft, From Beyond is a story of mad science gone wrong. A portal to a dimension out of sync with our own is discovered through a certain harmonic pitch which stimulates the pineal gland. The dimension it uncovers though, is full of brain eating monsters! Dr. Pretorius, who was just born to be a mad scientist, creates the device and ends up merging with a monster FROOOOM BEEEYOOOONNNNDDDDD and it’s up to Crawford to prove that the device should be dismantled and that he wasn’t crazy. The movie has a great line after Crawford is committed to the psych ward, “It ate his head…like… a GINGERBREAD MAN!”, I couldn’t help but laugh at that line. The movie itself is about Dr. Crawford, Bubba the police officer, and Dr. McMichaels trying to fight the urge of keeping the machine on and giving into the high it gives you and the evil that is beyond our own world.
The movie is actually quite well done, having an almost Poe-esque feel to parts of it. The monster effects were classic 1980’s, utilizing a lot of gore and plastic faces being melted, but combine the effects with the feeling the set gave, along with the out of this world orchestral score, this movie excelled. It did drag on in parts, when you wish that the movie would stop going for lame quips or unneeded “feeding” scenes, but that was really the only part that dragged it down. The nudity is underplayed by the raw sexual desires that Dr. McMichaels was feeling. It was quite a sight to see her give an unconscious Crawford a handjob while she was dressed as a dominatrix, even for the 80’s! The movie was a good trip through the twisted landscapes Lovecraft has always provided, but the ending was somewhat strange. Crawford was mutating due to his exposure to the device, but McMichaels should be mutating as well, but that was never brought up as the movie ended with her laughing crazily, probably negating the freedom Crawford allowed her to have by sacrificing himself to the other dimension in an eternal struggle between Pretorious and himself. All in all, despite the campy effects, the script, plot, and character acting more than make up for the flaws of this film.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Critical Film: A Review of Session 9
Session 9
Starring:
* David Caruso
* Stephen Gevedon
* Peter Mullan
* Josh Lucas
* Paul Guilfoyle
Director:
* Brad Anderson
When you work at an insane asylum, you gotta be… crazy. YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! Sorry, that will be the only CSI: Miami joke in this. The movie is a wonderfully slow romp through psychosis, in which you develop little feeling for the characters because they aren’t well fleshed out and little emotional ties to when they die. The story takes place at at an abandoned insane asylum that a crew wins the bid to restore. Enter Phil, Gordy, and their crew, which only has 1 week to complete the repairs. The place seems to have been left almost completely in tact, with files, folders, patient interviews available to anyone who was to stroll in or casually do some B and E.
The acting is very wooden and stiff, Caruso does a decent job of shedding his CSI police-ness and does a great job of throwing the creepy at you. The rest of the actors were not very attachable. I felt no qualms when one of them died because the story never gives the opportunity to form any type of bond before they are murdered off. The camera work is done well, as is the atmosphere. Any movie that takes place in a real abandoned insane asylum is going to get top rating in the field of atmosphere. The angles used for shots was done well, which speaks more to the location design than anything else. The special effects are almost nonexistent, but there are a few, blood/flashbacks/etc. With the acting being sub-par, the camera work and atmosphere being excellent, but the lack of any significant special effects, Session 9 earns a 3 out of 5.
Starring:
* David Caruso
* Stephen Gevedon
* Peter Mullan
* Josh Lucas
* Paul Guilfoyle
Director:
* Brad Anderson
When you work at an insane asylum, you gotta be… crazy. YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! Sorry, that will be the only CSI: Miami joke in this. The movie is a wonderfully slow romp through psychosis, in which you develop little feeling for the characters because they aren’t well fleshed out and little emotional ties to when they die. The story takes place at at an abandoned insane asylum that a crew wins the bid to restore. Enter Phil, Gordy, and their crew, which only has 1 week to complete the repairs. The place seems to have been left almost completely in tact, with files, folders, patient interviews available to anyone who was to stroll in or casually do some B and E.
The acting is very wooden and stiff, Caruso does a decent job of shedding his CSI police-ness and does a great job of throwing the creepy at you. The rest of the actors were not very attachable. I felt no qualms when one of them died because the story never gives the opportunity to form any type of bond before they are murdered off. The camera work is done well, as is the atmosphere. Any movie that takes place in a real abandoned insane asylum is going to get top rating in the field of atmosphere. The angles used for shots was done well, which speaks more to the location design than anything else. The special effects are almost nonexistent, but there are a few, blood/flashbacks/etc. With the acting being sub-par, the camera work and atmosphere being excellent, but the lack of any significant special effects, Session 9 earns a 3 out of 5.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Writing: Moment in Time - The Right Moment
As the last drops fall from the cup, trailing the course through his cracked lips to slide in fiery trails down his throat, he felt a light touch on his arm and a voice next to his ear telling him that it was time to leave. He pushed his chair back from the table and tossed his faded leather jacket over his shoulder. With a quick wave to his friends, he took her hand and they stepped out the door, feeling the wave of cold strike their hot skin. He pauses, pulls the pack of menthol's from his inner pocket and strikes his lighter, sending a small heat to battle the chill. He takes a deep breath and her hand in the same instant as they walk down the sidewalk which was dimly lit behind the hazy snow obscuring the globes above them.
They talked of little things, the words almost meaningless, the only thing mattering is that their were together. They laughed at an off-color joke she made and he felt her body tense, as if the act of enjoying herself was something to be frightened of. They passed restaurants and bars, gas stations and office buildings, totally engrossed in each other and lost in the moment. The trail of smoke from his cigarette could have been the chill losing the battle from the warmth in each of their hearts, but they never noticed.
They walked to her door and he flicked his cigarette into a snowbank, watching the cherry red tip flare in its death throws and die. She slide her hands into both of his, her heart in both those warm pools of brown. He smiled at her and told her that they would have to do this again, adding, as he looked into the swirling snow above them, during better weather. She agreed and told him so, watching the emotions flick across his face, but she could have been seeing the heat of the moment and the cold fiercely fighting on his face. She turned to walk in her door, but heard her name called just as her small hand touched the bronze door handle. She turned to see him on one knee, reaching deeply into one pocket all the while never taking his eyes from the reason he was happiest in life. Her breath caught as he pulled out a small box. Her eyes watered as he opened it. She never forgot that cold, snowy night, where the lights in the snow reflected in a rainbow starburst on the small diamond he placed on her finger.
They talked of little things, the words almost meaningless, the only thing mattering is that their were together. They laughed at an off-color joke she made and he felt her body tense, as if the act of enjoying herself was something to be frightened of. They passed restaurants and bars, gas stations and office buildings, totally engrossed in each other and lost in the moment. The trail of smoke from his cigarette could have been the chill losing the battle from the warmth in each of their hearts, but they never noticed.
They walked to her door and he flicked his cigarette into a snowbank, watching the cherry red tip flare in its death throws and die. She slide her hands into both of his, her heart in both those warm pools of brown. He smiled at her and told her that they would have to do this again, adding, as he looked into the swirling snow above them, during better weather. She agreed and told him so, watching the emotions flick across his face, but she could have been seeing the heat of the moment and the cold fiercely fighting on his face. She turned to walk in her door, but heard her name called just as her small hand touched the bronze door handle. She turned to see him on one knee, reaching deeply into one pocket all the while never taking his eyes from the reason he was happiest in life. Her breath caught as he pulled out a small box. Her eyes watered as he opened it. She never forgot that cold, snowy night, where the lights in the snow reflected in a rainbow starburst on the small diamond he placed on her finger.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Poetry: Pretty Girl on The Mountain
Pretty girl on the mountain,
caught somewhere 'tween heaven and hell,
you have no idea
where you are.
We can watch and point
and laugh and curse
knowing we will never reach that high,
but you're on every station
all across the nation,
psychobabble coursing from your lips.
I want to turn you off because you turn me on
and leave me running in the cold,
but every time I try I feel the hand of death.
Pretty girl on the mountain,
you ride the airwaves through the sky
and course into our collective veins,
careless to the cries in pleasures and pains.
I want to drop the remote, unplug the computer, lose the cell, hide the keys, mute the volume, turn off the lights, but I cant,
oh I knew I never could.
So I'll sit in mindless servitude to you
brains leaking to the floor along with self determination.
Staring at the pixels that make you that pretty girl on the mountain of consumerism.
caught somewhere 'tween heaven and hell,
you have no idea
where you are.
We can watch and point
and laugh and curse
knowing we will never reach that high,
but you're on every station
all across the nation,
psychobabble coursing from your lips.
I want to turn you off because you turn me on
and leave me running in the cold,
but every time I try I feel the hand of death.
Pretty girl on the mountain,
you ride the airwaves through the sky
and course into our collective veins,
careless to the cries in pleasures and pains.
I want to drop the remote, unplug the computer, lose the cell, hide the keys, mute the volume, turn off the lights, but I cant,
oh I knew I never could.
So I'll sit in mindless servitude to you
brains leaking to the floor along with self determination.
Staring at the pixels that make you that pretty girl on the mountain of consumerism.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Wring: Moment in Time - The Rush
He brought the car down hard. The entire chassy shook with the impact, but he no longer cared. He was too busy singing along to his radio as it blared into the cool October air. His hands firmly held the wheel, much like it used to hold her. As he regained a straight path, he took a sip from the liter of vodka he bought and sped through a red light. The red lights flashing behind him never registered in his mind. Faster and faster he went until he struck the break so hard that the car seemed to cry as he flew into the turn. The car behind him drew closer then swerved to dodge a possible collision. His pulse was racing as he hit 100 miles per hour; pounding by the time he hit 130. He drove for hours, but it must have been only minutes - until he hit the road block. The shots fired and he pressed harder on the gas. The pistons pumped faster and faster as each bullet tore through his body. Each flip the car made no longer mattered. When they finally ended and the police surrounded his car, he was still awake, taking a sip from his half-broken bottle. He smiled, said something which was filed away in a police case labeled Drunk Driver, and forgotten.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Poetry: Sometimes (Wishful Thinking)
Sometimes I wish I was first,
rather than waiting in a queue.
Spending life in second gear,
wheels turning but moving nowhere.
Sometimes I wish I felt attractive,
wiping away social norms with a coarse cloth.
Feeling wanted and desired,
the first move not mine but anothers'.
Sometimes I wish you would believe me,
forgetting the lies of others and listening.
Words of truth are seldom spoken,
a world coated in lies. . . save my words.
Sometimes I wish these things,
though I know they will rarely happen.
Though I wish, I'll work to make them true,
hanging hope upon the hook of Sometimes.
rather than waiting in a queue.
Spending life in second gear,
wheels turning but moving nowhere.
Sometimes I wish I felt attractive,
wiping away social norms with a coarse cloth.
Feeling wanted and desired,
the first move not mine but anothers'.
Sometimes I wish you would believe me,
forgetting the lies of others and listening.
Words of truth are seldom spoken,
a world coated in lies. . . save my words.
Sometimes I wish these things,
though I know they will rarely happen.
Though I wish, I'll work to make them true,
hanging hope upon the hook of Sometimes.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Writing: Burning Ember (Chapters 1-3)
The sun slides lower down on the horizon, bathing the land in a blood red light. An errant breeze strikes through the evergreen, shaking loose needles that whip around in the air before falling to the ground. On and on he ran. Time meant nothing to him as he ran through the crimson forest. All he knew is that someone had to be warned about what was coming. His warning would never be heard. A howl pierced the air. Then another. The pack was closing in on their prey. They could taste his flesh; his blood. With keen, golden eyes they spotted him. They could hear the whimpering of terror coming from his lips at fifty feet. The pounding of his heart at thirty feet. The beads of sweat hitting the ground at five feet. All became quiet soon after. The hunters approached his corpse and watched their hounds feed, a horrid smile lighting their darkened faces. The hunters turned and melded into the faded light of the forest and with an unspoken command, the hounds left what was left of the man to rot in the darkness...a bloodstained letter still in his clutched fist.
Serrin did not like mornings. They always seemed to bring cheer and good fortune to everyone else but him. Of course, Serrins' occupation kept him from seeing morning most of the time. Professional killers have a certain disdain about working in the daylight, always seeming to prefer the velvet twilight. This morning was unlike most for Serrin. Hidden in an alleyway, he watched his contract. He noted his movements to the last detail. He studied his house from one end to the other. He was methodical about every last bit information. "Everything in its place and time" he would always say. In his profession, a rushed job, is a sloppy job. It was always better to plan everything out in advance so there would be no surprises or pitfalls when the duty was done. He scratched vigorously at his fledgling beard. Serrin was still young and growing, but thought that by growing a beard he would be treated more like a man. He shifted on the crutch he carried as he watched his contract do business. Using a disguise was one of his favorite parts of the job. He could flaunt in his creativity as much or as little as he wished. The target walked off and toward his house, with Serrin not far behind. Tonight would be the night. Tonight his man would die for reasons that Serrin didn't worry about. He is not paid to know the reasons, he is paid to kill. As he watched the poor man close his door, Serrin smiled. This would be his last contract. Then he could leave this dust choked city and finally see his brother again. He only hoped his note reached him.
"Serrin? You there?", a low voice from somewhere below him in the inky darkness. He jumped slightly, cursing his own inattention. He glanced down into the deep azure eyes of Alliana. "Yes, I am up here. Try to be a little quieter, I am working.", he said. "Wait here", and with that he slide through the window and landed with cat like feet on the deeply carpeted floor. He glanced around at the ornate furniture lining the walls and the expensive oil paintings hanging. Serrin did not have an eye for art, but they looked rather lovely in the moonlight. He chuckled soundlessly as he slowly crept down the hall to the room where his target slept. On the way to do something horrid, you come across beauty. He shook off that thought and coldly turned his mind to the matter at hand. He reached the door and stopped, listening for any sign of movement. Satisfied by the thunderous silence coming from the chamber, he slowly drew his long silver dagger. Gleaming in the pale moonlight, the dagger was one of his most prized possessions. A gift from his father when he was young, in case he ever ran into trouble. With a deep breath, Serrin turned the bronze door handle. If he had been half an inch closer, the cross-bow bolt would have hit him square in the temple. With a heavy thud, the bolt tore into the solid oak door. Without missing a step, Serrin dove to the ground as another bolt flew over his head. Apparently the target was tipped off and that upset Serrin more then anything. Only a shadow of the bowman could be seen as Serrin scrambled up, dagger in one hand and sword in the other. He swiftly jumped over a deeply cushioned couch toward the shooter, rolling as he hit the ground to dodge another bolt. As he came out of the roll he skillfully threw the dagger end over end to land with the solid sound of metal striking bone in the neck of the unknown assailant. Serrin rose to his feet and looked around the room for anyone else that may want to discuss the finer points of combat with him. His eyes stopped when he reached the four post bed. The person he was sent to kill was gutted like a freshly killed boar. It was all Serrin could do to keep from gagging as he looked at the dissected corpse of his would be target. No human would have done this. No human could have done this. Could it have been one of the Darkness? Certainly they could have sent a hunter for him, but why? Slightly light-headed from the obscene violence on the bed, Serrin walked over to his would be killer only to find no body, only his dagger broken in two. He looked around the room quickly to make sure no one was in the room and saw that the window was wide open, the curtains billowing in the night air. No sounds accept the sounds of crickets singing their mating tunes. Sooner or later someone would come to investigate the noise from earlier, some house servant or bodyguard most likely. Serrin did not feel up to trying to talk, or persuade other ways, his way out of the house. With a deft swipe of his hand, he grabbed his dagger pieces and slowly lowered himself down out the window and back to Alliana.
To say he was angry would have been an understatement. Serrin did not like being robbed, even though there would have been nothing he could have done to stop a hunter from getting to his prey. As he walked down the road, avoiding open areas where someone from the house could have seen him, he thought about the hunter he faced. Hunters, as they are called, were once men. Heroes of ages forever gone. The Magus Circle of Fire dabbled in necromancy a few hundred years back and were able to resurrect one warrior of the Silver Age. Wargiss, Warlord of Blackrend Peak. The Magi's hoped to resurrect him as a mindless slave, only alive again to do their bidding, unfortunately that is not what happened. Wargiss rose from the alter and raised his hand in the air, a sword of crystal formed in his hand. Not much is known about what happened after that as the tower of the Magus Circle of Fire was sealed so that none may enter. Or escape. When the doors opened again, the Magi's were changed. They no longer wore the robes of flame, but of deep crimson. They wandered the tombs and catacombs of the land, retrieving long dead warriors and returning them to the tower. So were born the Hunters. Sallis, Warlock of Ferrn Isle. Qiller, Bowman of Salesa. Nornn, Warrior Prince of Galisha. Pellris, Queen of Torn Vale. Lastly, Borne, Beast-master of Jallina Valley. All heroes in life, but relentless hunters in death. Serrin was in a foul mood when he reached the tree that Alliana was to stay at. He looked around, but could not see a sign of her."Must have headed home", he muttered under his breath. "Good. I am too tired to be chasing her half way around the city.". He turned to walk away, but turned into the cowled face of Qiller, Dark Bowman of Wargiss.
The burning eyes of Quillar seared into the mind of Serrin. A scream frozen at his lips, unable to escape. For a dreadfully long time they stayed locked, staring at each other, until Quillar rasped the statement that would stay with Serrin to the day he died."You will die before the coming of the new year, young human", the hunter said in his hollow voice. A sneer crossing his blood covered lips. Fresh blood, which spoke louder then words that he feasted on his last kill before leaving. "You belong to Master. Do not fight it, it will only end in doom.", the threat that the statement made was tinged with pity and sympathy. Serrin was not entirely sure the noble souls of the hunters have been washed away totally. Looking into the eyes of Quillar dismissed that possibility. The eyes, burning green with unholy flame, were filled with malice. The dark robed hunter drew in close and ran his bloody finger across Serrin's forehead. "Leave here and never return," with that, Quillar burst into flames and was gone. No ash or scorch marks marked the combustion, he just vanished. Frozen in shock, Serrin did not hear the footsteps approaching from behind him until a hand touched his shoulder. Without thinking, he drew his sword and swung with a wide arc only to find Alliana wide eyed, with the blade of his sword not one inch from her temple. The madness of Quillar was still in his mind as he looked at her, all he could see was horrors. With a blood chilling scream he scrambled away from her and ran down an alley. Blindly he ran, wanting only to escape, until a sharp rap to the back of his head brought lights to his eyes. He turned unsteadily, the world seen through a foggy haze, seeing only two burly shapes coming closer to him. Feebly he raised his sword and one of the dark assailants slapped it out of his hand."Oh no, 'Lil man!", the big man laughed. "You be commin' wit us!", with that he raised his arm again and then Serrin sank deeper into unconsciousness.
Serrin awoke with a start, only to immediately regret it. The sharp rap to the head he took set his head to pounding. His eyes stung when he tried to open them, his dried blood gave mute evidence into how long he was unconscious. Groping around futility for the sword he dropped however long ago, the solid ground he was on gave a sudden jolt and knocked the young man down onto his stomach. Straining to open his eyes through the blinding pain, Serrin slowly looked up and saw the dark outline of the large man who knocked him silly in the first place. Scurrying back wards as fast as he could, slamming hard into a wooden wall."Ho ho, Little man! Planning to leave us so soon?", the big man said. "Da' Boss no like us having chase you like little rabbit again!"With his vision clearing, Serrin looked closer at the figure only to freeze in fright. The giant man wasn't even a man at all, but a full sized Ogre. His hair caught in a leather thong at the top of his large head, streamed down his large shoulder and down his mailed chest. Two gleaming eyes burned under his heavy brow, and two yellowed tusks protruded from his mouth. If all that wasn't enough for Serrin, he also saw a rather large spiked mace sitting in the Ogre's lap with his hand laid gently on the hilt, ready to use the mace to dispense mighty blows on whoever got in his way. Looking to the opening in the front, of the now noticed, wagon, Serrin saw the second, smaller man, smirking back at him. Before he could say anything, the wagoner turned back to the front and said, with contempt in his voice, "Sit back and enjoy the ride, bucko. This might be the last one you ever take." The Ogre grinned at Serrin, showing yellowed, broken teeth, and laughed a laugh devoid of any humor. The wagon rolled on to who knows where.
For 3 days the wagon rolled on across the green-grey expanse of the Wellkin Marsh. Serrin never traveled outside the city limits so he had no real idea where his captors were taking him. Serrin could only see out through a small hole the Ogre cut in the flap for him, so for three days his only view was a sliver of ground or a giant Ogre, needless to say, he watched the ground. Late in the evening the wagon hit cobblestone and rumbled up a dark and uninviting street. The Ogre laid his hand on Serrin and gave him a light shove to wake him up. His eyes opened to the Ogre's crooked smile."Da boss is waiting," he said as he opened the flap. Serrin rolled out of the wagon and was grabbed by the smaller man who was leading the wagon. The Ogre lumbered out of the wagon and up to the door of a substantial looking house. Three heavy knocks, then two, then three and the door slowly opened. A Scarlet robed person stepped out and looked at the three of them, nodded and stepped aside to let them in."Move along, boyo", the small man said. Serrin noticed that the Ogre and the driver were nervously looking at the house, almost seeming reluctant to enter. He would soon find out why. Walking through the door, Serrin entered a world of pain. His mind felt as if it was going to burst out from his skull. His blood boiled within his body and his skin felt as if it was going to rip off into tattered remains onto the floor. With a cry of inhuman pain, Serrin sunk to the floor, curling up into a ball when with a faintly heard snap, the pain was gone. Struggling to get into a kneeling position, Serrin's burning eyes saw a man sitting at the end of a the marble hall he entered. The man was slim, but not all bones. His eyes had a mischievous look about them as they met with Serrin's. His clothes were made of the finest silks dyed into a rich blue color. He had nothing in his hands save a small gem that sat hovering over his open palm."Amazing isn't it, Serrin?", the enthroned man said in a deep baritone. "A simple little gem can cause so much pain. Yet... the pain is not real." Seeing the confusion on Serrin's face, the man stood up and walked toward him. Two guards came hurrying out of hidden alcoves to flank him as he walked down the suddenly torch lit hall. Serrin stood up as the torch next to him burst into flame and tried to take in everything he could before anyone could notice. The Ogre and the driver stood nervously in front of the door. The guards that flanked the man were heavily armed and armored. The man himself on the other hand, had no weapons visible except that gem, which is a weapon unto itself."What does that.. thing have to do with me? Why am I here?" Serrin said as the man reached him."Problems arise from time to time that require the services of a certain sect of people that were.. how can I say.. bred for this type of situation.", the man said quietly. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a small, blood stained envelope. "You, my young friend, are one of these people now." he sighed slowly as he gave Serrin the letter, "Your brother is dead, Serrin. It is your turn to take up where he left off. I am Lord Tallonvice, Serrin. I require your assistance, try not to mess up like your dearly departed brother. I would hate to have to end your families bloodline personally."
The house, full of wonders, confused Serrin as he was led deep within to the study of Tallonvice. His mind though, rang with those hated words, "Your brother is dead". They echoed deep in his soul, searing at him. Dashing away tears with the back of his hand, he realized the guards that escorted him were no longer with him. He soon saw why.
On both sides of the door to the study stood granite dragons. Each turned to look at the person approaching and kept a close eye as Serrin walked by them. He had no doubt they would rip him asunder if he tried to do anything to their master. Turning his attention away from the guardians, Serrin took in the room. Stacks of books stood in cluttered piles all over the place, plates and glasses were stacked messily to the side of a large table that was covered with maps and more books. Great statues stood in the four corners, staring down at Serrin with lifeless eyes.
"Amazing, are'nt they?", said Tallonvice from the doorway. Serrin turned quickly to him, still unsure what he had in store with him. Tallonvice looked around the room and smiled gently, "These are my greatest achievements. I have spent my life collecting one of the worlds largest libraries." Looking askew at Serrin he asked, "Do you read much, boy? I would guess your profession does not leave a lot of time to read. Sit, sit. I am sure you are... dying to know what I want you to do." Serrin did not like that statement, or the dark smile that lit up Tallonvice's face. Taking a seat at the table, Serrin thought it was time he got some answers.
"How did you know my brother? What did he do for you? What do you want from me? Why di-"
"Let me answer those for you before you rattle on and waste more time," Tallonvice said with a slightly angry expression. "Your brother was what you are. An assassin. He was one of the best I had ever seen. He was also a... thief, in some ways. His prey though, was not ordinary prey. He killed those that could not die. Those that had a penalty worse then death for those that killed them." The light in the room dimmed as the flames from the candles seemed to wain with his words. Serrin sat there, unwilling to believe what he was just told. His brother... a man who killed the The Crimson.
The Crimson, as everyone knew since the Circle of Fire fell, were touched by Wargiss himself. The return from the grave imbued his hand with power. One gift he bestowed upon all of the Magi and their followers was the Curse of the Crimson Blood. When a follower of Wargiss fell, he brought wrath down from the heavens and not only killed, but destroyed the soul of the murderer. Most heaped this story in with folklore, but people still stepped quietly around the followers of The Crimson.
"He got word to me that The Crimson finally caught up to him. He was to make his way to a safe house I know of in Corridon, but found the city in flames and," Tallonvice grimaced slightly, "and the people impaled on large bone spines coming from the ground. Men, women and children. All dead at Wargiss' hand. Anyway, He was on his way to Wellkin when he got ambushed in the forest. We found his body a few days later and the only thing that identified him was that letter and... a warning left there." Standing up, he went over to a cabinet and opened it up slowly. Serrin gasped and started from his chair when it opened. A flat, dark stone, the size of a man, stood inside of it. On the surface, an image played out the final moments of his brothers life as the beasts tore him apart. From the darkness behind where the body of his brother lay, a shape came out to look upon their meal. The hunter looked up and stared right at Serrin with burning green eyes. The Beast-master of Wargiss laughed and mouthed the word 'Serrin'. Turning slowly, Borne walked back into the darkness to vanish without a trace, followed soon after by his hounds.
Serrin sat down, fresh tears streaming down his face. His eyes burned but the voice that came from his lips had no sorrow. "I will be your hunter." Standing up and walked towards the stone, Serrin threw a punch straight at the replay, only to have the entire stone crumble to dust under his touch. Turning back to Tallonvice, Serrin no longer felt sorrow, but burning hatred. "Where do I start?"
Tallonvice looked at him with a slightly amused expression, "Why... your hometown, of course. A young girl known as Alliana, I am sure you know her, has a family with a dark secret. Go Serrin, her family is your target." Turning to leave Serrin, who stood with a slightly shocked expression, he looked over his shoulder with a smile and said, "Don't disappoint me, boy. I have a very long arm." and with that, he swept from the room.
Traveling east on the road to Wellkin, Joral was used to bandits and the like. He has lived through much worse in the years following the War of the Brothers, and during the war, he thought wryly. Giving up the sword years ago to take up a more normal life, he became a wagoneer. No dire straights for him anymore, just him, his horses and the road. Giving up his wagon for a small time to a pair of untrustworthy fellows a week back had put a sour taste in his gullet, yet the good blue tinged gold of Wellkin that they paid with quickly sweetened the taste. Take them to some manor house deep in the marshes and leave, that's all. A jolt from the horses brought Joral out of his musings and made him look up to see what spooked them. He would never have time to regret looking up.
The wagon had been searched from top to bottom by The Crimson and no sign. Only scent. Quillar knew his prey was near. A week. Maybe two. Where did this fool take him? Why would he have gone to Wellkin? He did'nt know the answers, but Wargiss did. Quillar knew his place and that place was one that was not to question Wargiss. Quillar failed him when he let the boy go back in the alley and Wargiss made it abuntantly clear the next time he failed, he would not be reborn after the torture. Living past your time was a writhing pain, but the silence of eternal slumber would drive him past the brink of insanity. Growling deep in his throat, he gave the flayed corpse of the driver a kick that snapped the spine in half. Not feeling much better then he did before he caught the wagon, Quillar knew he was close. Close enough to almost taste his prey, but something changed. The sent itself has changed. The boy was near something... old. Shrugging it off, Quillar turned and seemingly melted into the air along with the rest of The Crimson.
Borne sat for a little longer after Quillar left, to be sure he wouldn't turn back around and see him. Leaping from the tree he was perched in to land softly in the sun-dried grass, he strode up to the wagon to check on the blundering Quillar let The Crimson do. Quillar liked to put on airs and tell the others that he was beyond menial tasks. Borne never trusted anything but his own eyes. Between all of the others, Borne had Quillar on the top of the list to die if he ever got the opportunity. Searching the wagon revealed nothing accept a few trace hints that the boy was here. Shifting his attention to the drivers belongings, though, turned up Wellkin gold. Not many in Wellkin had much gold as the country itself was going broke, so who would have given a wagoneer this much of such a rare commodity? Picking through the remains of the clothes and skin revealed nothing more. Standing straight up, Borne looked up at the midday sun, burning wanly in the misty sky. There is not many places around, besides the city of Wellkin itself, only a few small towns not worth the land they sit upon. Ever the rational thinker, he decided to wait out the young man at Wellkin itself, reasoning that where ever he was to go, he would have to pass through to get there. Smiling at his cleverness, Borne went to fetch the horse he stole.
Alliana ran as fast as she could. Feeling the blade of Serrins short sword so close to her skin wasn't what made her run, but the look in his eyes. Fire burned in them as he swung the sword. Madness. Her father described that kind of fire before. He had seen it many times in his lifetime. Her father was a ex-member of The Crimson. Fighting for Wargiss for uncountable years, he finally turned on his former masters and struck a blow to Wargiss himself when he left. He never told her what he did that made him go into hiding, but the time for hiding was over. They had been found.
Scrambling over the wet stones on the road, she ran for the smithy, where her father toiled for hours on end to keep up appearances. Trust be told, they had no need for money, as before his fall from the eyes of Wargiss, her father was a wealthy captain of The Crimson. Composing herself before she rushed in, she took a few moments to collect her thoughts. The fire, the insanity, the smell. She stopped breathing altogether at that thought. The smell of blood, everywhere on that street. Even as she ran away, she could smell the blood. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she slowly walked into the smithy.
"Father?", she spoke quietly, the effort of running across the town rendering her near speechless. Looking over the line of anvils, she saw her father hammering a wagon tongue into shape. "Father!" Looking up sharply, he was about to yell at her for interrupting him at work when he stopped with the words still on his lips. Staring at her, seeing the look of fear standing in her deep blue eyes, he let the hammer fall slowly from his hand to land on the hard stone floor with a loud clang.
"They found me.”
“Run home child, pack what you can.”
“How did they find us, father?”, Alliana said quietly as they quickly left the smithy. Oddly, she was more worried for his safety than for hers. Suddenly it came to her. When they came, they would come for him, not her.
“Hush child, go home and pack. You must be quick about it.” Her father glanced around quickly, making sure no-one was near. “I am going to have to steal a wagon for us. I will meet you at the gate.” And with that, he disappeared around a corner.
Alliana was about to call out to him, but stopped quickly. Any outbursts could draw them to us. She swiftly walked down the road to the small house they lived in. Tossing a few sets of clothes and some food in a large canvas sack, she made her way out into the chill night.
Before she made it to the gate, she caught the scent of something rotten. Not wanting to stop, she tried to move along faster, but her legs would not move beyond a snails pace.
“He is coming, Alliana,” said a steely voice from behind her. “There is nothing you can do to stop him. He will kill your father then he will kill again and again until I want him to stop.” The voice let out a blood chilling laugh and continued, “Tallonvice thinks he has the boy under his control, but I have him under control. I would not go to the gate tonight, Alliana. Your safer just returning home and forgetting about your dearly departed father.” Alliana felt her legs buckle as she was let go from that mysterious grip. Quickly she turned only to find the street empty, save only a dog vigorously scratching his ears under a stoop. She trembled from head to toe, not wanting to go forward, but unable to go back.
“I love you father,” she said softly into the night air. Picking up her sack, she continued to the gate, but in her heart she knew what she would find.
She ran for hours in the darkness. She did not care where she was going anymore. Her mind numb with grief; her limbs trembling with fear. He followed her the entire time, watching her, tasting her sweat in the air. He could hear the sound of her heart pumping. Thump. He could almost see her sweet blood flowing through her. Thump. He could taste her sweat on his lips. He wanted to catch her, drain her, tasting and enjoying every last drop of her innocent blood.
“Nornn,” a harsh voice whispers inside his mind. “That is not the task I set for you.” Nornn pushes the thought of feasting from his mind at the silent command of his master. He had a job to do. This young worm will lead us to the boy Serrin. Once Wargiss had the boy, the girl would be fair game. He would have to speak to his sister, knowing that she will want to feast on her as well.
“I could always just kill her, then this young one would be all mine,”
The girl froze in her tracks, looking about fearfully. Slinking into the shadowy cover of the foliage, Nornn cursed himself for being so careless. If she sees him, she would have to die, and no matter how grateful he would be for the feast that would follow, Wargiss would be considerably less pleased and possibly feast on him. . .eternally.
She begins moving again, quicker. The blood pumping through her terrified heart faster and faster. Nornn had to keep his head, stay focused, as they made their way through the brush. Cloaked in darkness, he silently followed her as she slowly made her way to the small town of Wellkin.
Serrin did not like mornings. They always seemed to bring cheer and good fortune to everyone else but him. Of course, Serrins' occupation kept him from seeing morning most of the time. Professional killers have a certain disdain about working in the daylight, always seeming to prefer the velvet twilight. This morning was unlike most for Serrin. Hidden in an alleyway, he watched his contract. He noted his movements to the last detail. He studied his house from one end to the other. He was methodical about every last bit information. "Everything in its place and time" he would always say. In his profession, a rushed job, is a sloppy job. It was always better to plan everything out in advance so there would be no surprises or pitfalls when the duty was done. He scratched vigorously at his fledgling beard. Serrin was still young and growing, but thought that by growing a beard he would be treated more like a man. He shifted on the crutch he carried as he watched his contract do business. Using a disguise was one of his favorite parts of the job. He could flaunt in his creativity as much or as little as he wished. The target walked off and toward his house, with Serrin not far behind. Tonight would be the night. Tonight his man would die for reasons that Serrin didn't worry about. He is not paid to know the reasons, he is paid to kill. As he watched the poor man close his door, Serrin smiled. This would be his last contract. Then he could leave this dust choked city and finally see his brother again. He only hoped his note reached him.
"Serrin? You there?", a low voice from somewhere below him in the inky darkness. He jumped slightly, cursing his own inattention. He glanced down into the deep azure eyes of Alliana. "Yes, I am up here. Try to be a little quieter, I am working.", he said. "Wait here", and with that he slide through the window and landed with cat like feet on the deeply carpeted floor. He glanced around at the ornate furniture lining the walls and the expensive oil paintings hanging. Serrin did not have an eye for art, but they looked rather lovely in the moonlight. He chuckled soundlessly as he slowly crept down the hall to the room where his target slept. On the way to do something horrid, you come across beauty. He shook off that thought and coldly turned his mind to the matter at hand. He reached the door and stopped, listening for any sign of movement. Satisfied by the thunderous silence coming from the chamber, he slowly drew his long silver dagger. Gleaming in the pale moonlight, the dagger was one of his most prized possessions. A gift from his father when he was young, in case he ever ran into trouble. With a deep breath, Serrin turned the bronze door handle. If he had been half an inch closer, the cross-bow bolt would have hit him square in the temple. With a heavy thud, the bolt tore into the solid oak door. Without missing a step, Serrin dove to the ground as another bolt flew over his head. Apparently the target was tipped off and that upset Serrin more then anything. Only a shadow of the bowman could be seen as Serrin scrambled up, dagger in one hand and sword in the other. He swiftly jumped over a deeply cushioned couch toward the shooter, rolling as he hit the ground to dodge another bolt. As he came out of the roll he skillfully threw the dagger end over end to land with the solid sound of metal striking bone in the neck of the unknown assailant. Serrin rose to his feet and looked around the room for anyone else that may want to discuss the finer points of combat with him. His eyes stopped when he reached the four post bed. The person he was sent to kill was gutted like a freshly killed boar. It was all Serrin could do to keep from gagging as he looked at the dissected corpse of his would be target. No human would have done this. No human could have done this. Could it have been one of the Darkness? Certainly they could have sent a hunter for him, but why? Slightly light-headed from the obscene violence on the bed, Serrin walked over to his would be killer only to find no body, only his dagger broken in two. He looked around the room quickly to make sure no one was in the room and saw that the window was wide open, the curtains billowing in the night air. No sounds accept the sounds of crickets singing their mating tunes. Sooner or later someone would come to investigate the noise from earlier, some house servant or bodyguard most likely. Serrin did not feel up to trying to talk, or persuade other ways, his way out of the house. With a deft swipe of his hand, he grabbed his dagger pieces and slowly lowered himself down out the window and back to Alliana.
To say he was angry would have been an understatement. Serrin did not like being robbed, even though there would have been nothing he could have done to stop a hunter from getting to his prey. As he walked down the road, avoiding open areas where someone from the house could have seen him, he thought about the hunter he faced. Hunters, as they are called, were once men. Heroes of ages forever gone. The Magus Circle of Fire dabbled in necromancy a few hundred years back and were able to resurrect one warrior of the Silver Age. Wargiss, Warlord of Blackrend Peak. The Magi's hoped to resurrect him as a mindless slave, only alive again to do their bidding, unfortunately that is not what happened. Wargiss rose from the alter and raised his hand in the air, a sword of crystal formed in his hand. Not much is known about what happened after that as the tower of the Magus Circle of Fire was sealed so that none may enter. Or escape. When the doors opened again, the Magi's were changed. They no longer wore the robes of flame, but of deep crimson. They wandered the tombs and catacombs of the land, retrieving long dead warriors and returning them to the tower. So were born the Hunters. Sallis, Warlock of Ferrn Isle. Qiller, Bowman of Salesa. Nornn, Warrior Prince of Galisha. Pellris, Queen of Torn Vale. Lastly, Borne, Beast-master of Jallina Valley. All heroes in life, but relentless hunters in death. Serrin was in a foul mood when he reached the tree that Alliana was to stay at. He looked around, but could not see a sign of her."Must have headed home", he muttered under his breath. "Good. I am too tired to be chasing her half way around the city.". He turned to walk away, but turned into the cowled face of Qiller, Dark Bowman of Wargiss.
The burning eyes of Quillar seared into the mind of Serrin. A scream frozen at his lips, unable to escape. For a dreadfully long time they stayed locked, staring at each other, until Quillar rasped the statement that would stay with Serrin to the day he died."You will die before the coming of the new year, young human", the hunter said in his hollow voice. A sneer crossing his blood covered lips. Fresh blood, which spoke louder then words that he feasted on his last kill before leaving. "You belong to Master. Do not fight it, it will only end in doom.", the threat that the statement made was tinged with pity and sympathy. Serrin was not entirely sure the noble souls of the hunters have been washed away totally. Looking into the eyes of Quillar dismissed that possibility. The eyes, burning green with unholy flame, were filled with malice. The dark robed hunter drew in close and ran his bloody finger across Serrin's forehead. "Leave here and never return," with that, Quillar burst into flames and was gone. No ash or scorch marks marked the combustion, he just vanished. Frozen in shock, Serrin did not hear the footsteps approaching from behind him until a hand touched his shoulder. Without thinking, he drew his sword and swung with a wide arc only to find Alliana wide eyed, with the blade of his sword not one inch from her temple. The madness of Quillar was still in his mind as he looked at her, all he could see was horrors. With a blood chilling scream he scrambled away from her and ran down an alley. Blindly he ran, wanting only to escape, until a sharp rap to the back of his head brought lights to his eyes. He turned unsteadily, the world seen through a foggy haze, seeing only two burly shapes coming closer to him. Feebly he raised his sword and one of the dark assailants slapped it out of his hand."Oh no, 'Lil man!", the big man laughed. "You be commin' wit us!", with that he raised his arm again and then Serrin sank deeper into unconsciousness.
Serrin awoke with a start, only to immediately regret it. The sharp rap to the head he took set his head to pounding. His eyes stung when he tried to open them, his dried blood gave mute evidence into how long he was unconscious. Groping around futility for the sword he dropped however long ago, the solid ground he was on gave a sudden jolt and knocked the young man down onto his stomach. Straining to open his eyes through the blinding pain, Serrin slowly looked up and saw the dark outline of the large man who knocked him silly in the first place. Scurrying back wards as fast as he could, slamming hard into a wooden wall."Ho ho, Little man! Planning to leave us so soon?", the big man said. "Da' Boss no like us having chase you like little rabbit again!"With his vision clearing, Serrin looked closer at the figure only to freeze in fright. The giant man wasn't even a man at all, but a full sized Ogre. His hair caught in a leather thong at the top of his large head, streamed down his large shoulder and down his mailed chest. Two gleaming eyes burned under his heavy brow, and two yellowed tusks protruded from his mouth. If all that wasn't enough for Serrin, he also saw a rather large spiked mace sitting in the Ogre's lap with his hand laid gently on the hilt, ready to use the mace to dispense mighty blows on whoever got in his way. Looking to the opening in the front, of the now noticed, wagon, Serrin saw the second, smaller man, smirking back at him. Before he could say anything, the wagoner turned back to the front and said, with contempt in his voice, "Sit back and enjoy the ride, bucko. This might be the last one you ever take." The Ogre grinned at Serrin, showing yellowed, broken teeth, and laughed a laugh devoid of any humor. The wagon rolled on to who knows where.
For 3 days the wagon rolled on across the green-grey expanse of the Wellkin Marsh. Serrin never traveled outside the city limits so he had no real idea where his captors were taking him. Serrin could only see out through a small hole the Ogre cut in the flap for him, so for three days his only view was a sliver of ground or a giant Ogre, needless to say, he watched the ground. Late in the evening the wagon hit cobblestone and rumbled up a dark and uninviting street. The Ogre laid his hand on Serrin and gave him a light shove to wake him up. His eyes opened to the Ogre's crooked smile."Da boss is waiting," he said as he opened the flap. Serrin rolled out of the wagon and was grabbed by the smaller man who was leading the wagon. The Ogre lumbered out of the wagon and up to the door of a substantial looking house. Three heavy knocks, then two, then three and the door slowly opened. A Scarlet robed person stepped out and looked at the three of them, nodded and stepped aside to let them in."Move along, boyo", the small man said. Serrin noticed that the Ogre and the driver were nervously looking at the house, almost seeming reluctant to enter. He would soon find out why. Walking through the door, Serrin entered a world of pain. His mind felt as if it was going to burst out from his skull. His blood boiled within his body and his skin felt as if it was going to rip off into tattered remains onto the floor. With a cry of inhuman pain, Serrin sunk to the floor, curling up into a ball when with a faintly heard snap, the pain was gone. Struggling to get into a kneeling position, Serrin's burning eyes saw a man sitting at the end of a the marble hall he entered. The man was slim, but not all bones. His eyes had a mischievous look about them as they met with Serrin's. His clothes were made of the finest silks dyed into a rich blue color. He had nothing in his hands save a small gem that sat hovering over his open palm."Amazing isn't it, Serrin?", the enthroned man said in a deep baritone. "A simple little gem can cause so much pain. Yet... the pain is not real." Seeing the confusion on Serrin's face, the man stood up and walked toward him. Two guards came hurrying out of hidden alcoves to flank him as he walked down the suddenly torch lit hall. Serrin stood up as the torch next to him burst into flame and tried to take in everything he could before anyone could notice. The Ogre and the driver stood nervously in front of the door. The guards that flanked the man were heavily armed and armored. The man himself on the other hand, had no weapons visible except that gem, which is a weapon unto itself."What does that.. thing have to do with me? Why am I here?" Serrin said as the man reached him."Problems arise from time to time that require the services of a certain sect of people that were.. how can I say.. bred for this type of situation.", the man said quietly. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a small, blood stained envelope. "You, my young friend, are one of these people now." he sighed slowly as he gave Serrin the letter, "Your brother is dead, Serrin. It is your turn to take up where he left off. I am Lord Tallonvice, Serrin. I require your assistance, try not to mess up like your dearly departed brother. I would hate to have to end your families bloodline personally."
The house, full of wonders, confused Serrin as he was led deep within to the study of Tallonvice. His mind though, rang with those hated words, "Your brother is dead". They echoed deep in his soul, searing at him. Dashing away tears with the back of his hand, he realized the guards that escorted him were no longer with him. He soon saw why.
On both sides of the door to the study stood granite dragons. Each turned to look at the person approaching and kept a close eye as Serrin walked by them. He had no doubt they would rip him asunder if he tried to do anything to their master. Turning his attention away from the guardians, Serrin took in the room. Stacks of books stood in cluttered piles all over the place, plates and glasses were stacked messily to the side of a large table that was covered with maps and more books. Great statues stood in the four corners, staring down at Serrin with lifeless eyes.
"Amazing, are'nt they?", said Tallonvice from the doorway. Serrin turned quickly to him, still unsure what he had in store with him. Tallonvice looked around the room and smiled gently, "These are my greatest achievements. I have spent my life collecting one of the worlds largest libraries." Looking askew at Serrin he asked, "Do you read much, boy? I would guess your profession does not leave a lot of time to read. Sit, sit. I am sure you are... dying to know what I want you to do." Serrin did not like that statement, or the dark smile that lit up Tallonvice's face. Taking a seat at the table, Serrin thought it was time he got some answers.
"How did you know my brother? What did he do for you? What do you want from me? Why di-"
"Let me answer those for you before you rattle on and waste more time," Tallonvice said with a slightly angry expression. "Your brother was what you are. An assassin. He was one of the best I had ever seen. He was also a... thief, in some ways. His prey though, was not ordinary prey. He killed those that could not die. Those that had a penalty worse then death for those that killed them." The light in the room dimmed as the flames from the candles seemed to wain with his words. Serrin sat there, unwilling to believe what he was just told. His brother... a man who killed the The Crimson.
The Crimson, as everyone knew since the Circle of Fire fell, were touched by Wargiss himself. The return from the grave imbued his hand with power. One gift he bestowed upon all of the Magi and their followers was the Curse of the Crimson Blood. When a follower of Wargiss fell, he brought wrath down from the heavens and not only killed, but destroyed the soul of the murderer. Most heaped this story in with folklore, but people still stepped quietly around the followers of The Crimson.
"He got word to me that The Crimson finally caught up to him. He was to make his way to a safe house I know of in Corridon, but found the city in flames and," Tallonvice grimaced slightly, "and the people impaled on large bone spines coming from the ground. Men, women and children. All dead at Wargiss' hand. Anyway, He was on his way to Wellkin when he got ambushed in the forest. We found his body a few days later and the only thing that identified him was that letter and... a warning left there." Standing up, he went over to a cabinet and opened it up slowly. Serrin gasped and started from his chair when it opened. A flat, dark stone, the size of a man, stood inside of it. On the surface, an image played out the final moments of his brothers life as the beasts tore him apart. From the darkness behind where the body of his brother lay, a shape came out to look upon their meal. The hunter looked up and stared right at Serrin with burning green eyes. The Beast-master of Wargiss laughed and mouthed the word 'Serrin'. Turning slowly, Borne walked back into the darkness to vanish without a trace, followed soon after by his hounds.
Serrin sat down, fresh tears streaming down his face. His eyes burned but the voice that came from his lips had no sorrow. "I will be your hunter." Standing up and walked towards the stone, Serrin threw a punch straight at the replay, only to have the entire stone crumble to dust under his touch. Turning back to Tallonvice, Serrin no longer felt sorrow, but burning hatred. "Where do I start?"
Tallonvice looked at him with a slightly amused expression, "Why... your hometown, of course. A young girl known as Alliana, I am sure you know her, has a family with a dark secret. Go Serrin, her family is your target." Turning to leave Serrin, who stood with a slightly shocked expression, he looked over his shoulder with a smile and said, "Don't disappoint me, boy. I have a very long arm." and with that, he swept from the room.
Traveling east on the road to Wellkin, Joral was used to bandits and the like. He has lived through much worse in the years following the War of the Brothers, and during the war, he thought wryly. Giving up the sword years ago to take up a more normal life, he became a wagoneer. No dire straights for him anymore, just him, his horses and the road. Giving up his wagon for a small time to a pair of untrustworthy fellows a week back had put a sour taste in his gullet, yet the good blue tinged gold of Wellkin that they paid with quickly sweetened the taste. Take them to some manor house deep in the marshes and leave, that's all. A jolt from the horses brought Joral out of his musings and made him look up to see what spooked them. He would never have time to regret looking up.
The wagon had been searched from top to bottom by The Crimson and no sign. Only scent. Quillar knew his prey was near. A week. Maybe two. Where did this fool take him? Why would he have gone to Wellkin? He did'nt know the answers, but Wargiss did. Quillar knew his place and that place was one that was not to question Wargiss. Quillar failed him when he let the boy go back in the alley and Wargiss made it abuntantly clear the next time he failed, he would not be reborn after the torture. Living past your time was a writhing pain, but the silence of eternal slumber would drive him past the brink of insanity. Growling deep in his throat, he gave the flayed corpse of the driver a kick that snapped the spine in half. Not feeling much better then he did before he caught the wagon, Quillar knew he was close. Close enough to almost taste his prey, but something changed. The sent itself has changed. The boy was near something... old. Shrugging it off, Quillar turned and seemingly melted into the air along with the rest of The Crimson.
Borne sat for a little longer after Quillar left, to be sure he wouldn't turn back around and see him. Leaping from the tree he was perched in to land softly in the sun-dried grass, he strode up to the wagon to check on the blundering Quillar let The Crimson do. Quillar liked to put on airs and tell the others that he was beyond menial tasks. Borne never trusted anything but his own eyes. Between all of the others, Borne had Quillar on the top of the list to die if he ever got the opportunity. Searching the wagon revealed nothing accept a few trace hints that the boy was here. Shifting his attention to the drivers belongings, though, turned up Wellkin gold. Not many in Wellkin had much gold as the country itself was going broke, so who would have given a wagoneer this much of such a rare commodity? Picking through the remains of the clothes and skin revealed nothing more. Standing straight up, Borne looked up at the midday sun, burning wanly in the misty sky. There is not many places around, besides the city of Wellkin itself, only a few small towns not worth the land they sit upon. Ever the rational thinker, he decided to wait out the young man at Wellkin itself, reasoning that where ever he was to go, he would have to pass through to get there. Smiling at his cleverness, Borne went to fetch the horse he stole.
Alliana ran as fast as she could. Feeling the blade of Serrins short sword so close to her skin wasn't what made her run, but the look in his eyes. Fire burned in them as he swung the sword. Madness. Her father described that kind of fire before. He had seen it many times in his lifetime. Her father was a ex-member of The Crimson. Fighting for Wargiss for uncountable years, he finally turned on his former masters and struck a blow to Wargiss himself when he left. He never told her what he did that made him go into hiding, but the time for hiding was over. They had been found.
Scrambling over the wet stones on the road, she ran for the smithy, where her father toiled for hours on end to keep up appearances. Trust be told, they had no need for money, as before his fall from the eyes of Wargiss, her father was a wealthy captain of The Crimson. Composing herself before she rushed in, she took a few moments to collect her thoughts. The fire, the insanity, the smell. She stopped breathing altogether at that thought. The smell of blood, everywhere on that street. Even as she ran away, she could smell the blood. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she slowly walked into the smithy.
"Father?", she spoke quietly, the effort of running across the town rendering her near speechless. Looking over the line of anvils, she saw her father hammering a wagon tongue into shape. "Father!" Looking up sharply, he was about to yell at her for interrupting him at work when he stopped with the words still on his lips. Staring at her, seeing the look of fear standing in her deep blue eyes, he let the hammer fall slowly from his hand to land on the hard stone floor with a loud clang.
"They found me.”
“Run home child, pack what you can.”
“How did they find us, father?”, Alliana said quietly as they quickly left the smithy. Oddly, she was more worried for his safety than for hers. Suddenly it came to her. When they came, they would come for him, not her.
“Hush child, go home and pack. You must be quick about it.” Her father glanced around quickly, making sure no-one was near. “I am going to have to steal a wagon for us. I will meet you at the gate.” And with that, he disappeared around a corner.
Alliana was about to call out to him, but stopped quickly. Any outbursts could draw them to us. She swiftly walked down the road to the small house they lived in. Tossing a few sets of clothes and some food in a large canvas sack, she made her way out into the chill night.
Before she made it to the gate, she caught the scent of something rotten. Not wanting to stop, she tried to move along faster, but her legs would not move beyond a snails pace.
“He is coming, Alliana,” said a steely voice from behind her. “There is nothing you can do to stop him. He will kill your father then he will kill again and again until I want him to stop.” The voice let out a blood chilling laugh and continued, “Tallonvice thinks he has the boy under his control, but I have him under control. I would not go to the gate tonight, Alliana. Your safer just returning home and forgetting about your dearly departed father.” Alliana felt her legs buckle as she was let go from that mysterious grip. Quickly she turned only to find the street empty, save only a dog vigorously scratching his ears under a stoop. She trembled from head to toe, not wanting to go forward, but unable to go back.
“I love you father,” she said softly into the night air. Picking up her sack, she continued to the gate, but in her heart she knew what she would find.
She ran for hours in the darkness. She did not care where she was going anymore. Her mind numb with grief; her limbs trembling with fear. He followed her the entire time, watching her, tasting her sweat in the air. He could hear the sound of her heart pumping. Thump. He could almost see her sweet blood flowing through her. Thump. He could taste her sweat on his lips. He wanted to catch her, drain her, tasting and enjoying every last drop of her innocent blood.
“Nornn,” a harsh voice whispers inside his mind. “That is not the task I set for you.” Nornn pushes the thought of feasting from his mind at the silent command of his master. He had a job to do. This young worm will lead us to the boy Serrin. Once Wargiss had the boy, the girl would be fair game. He would have to speak to his sister, knowing that she will want to feast on her as well.
“I could always just kill her, then this young one would be all mine,”
The girl froze in her tracks, looking about fearfully. Slinking into the shadowy cover of the foliage, Nornn cursed himself for being so careless. If she sees him, she would have to die, and no matter how grateful he would be for the feast that would follow, Wargiss would be considerably less pleased and possibly feast on him. . .eternally.
She begins moving again, quicker. The blood pumping through her terrified heart faster and faster. Nornn had to keep his head, stay focused, as they made their way through the brush. Cloaked in darkness, he silently followed her as she slowly made her way to the small town of Wellkin.
**Work In Progress**
The blood tasted fresh, though he knew it had dried days ago. The taste had kept him sane, kept him in the moment. Each metallic swallow told him he was still alive, still alive and still in danger. His sword dripped crimson, pooling at his feet as a memento to his his survival. Each ambush, though taking more and more strength to get through, he survived. With each ambush, he moved close to the man who was hunting him. Every muscle in his body screamed for sleep, but he knew that stopping meant death, death he was not ready to accept. The darkness was his ally, it embraced him, keep him alive. If he knew which God had domain over it, he would offer a prayer of thanks. A scuffling of leather over stone and the jingle of chain causes his eyes to narrow. No time for idle thought now, more lambs have come to the slaughter.
The feel of a blade passing through the chest of a person at a high velocity feels much like sticking a branch into a pool of mud. His sword drove through the man before he was able to shout for help. Spinning around the impaled body, he caught the second man solidly on the chin with his elbow, sending him spinning to the ground. Another quick dart to the left, dodging a hasty sword stroke, feeling the sparks from the blade hitting stone strike hotly on his neck, he muttered a quick spell, sending a flash of green flame toward the third attacker, enveloping him, leaving nothing but a smoldering pile of bone and armor. He turned and drove his knee into the face of the man still alive, sending him sprawling to the ground once more. He retrieved his sword from the first man and cleaned the blade on the fallen mans cloak. With a face harsher than the deepest winter, he slowly walked back to where the unconscious man lay, ready to get some answers.
"Wake up".
A kick to the ribs caused the man to stir, his glazed eyes slowly attempting to refocus as he struggled against his bonds/ He watched his captive struggle against the spectral bonds and saw the look of animalistic fear in his wild eyes. A fear intensified by the blood of his friends that was splattered across his face, though not a little bit of it was his as well.
"What's your name?"
He wiped the spit from his cheek and began to speak a spell in a low voice which, once released, caused the man to scream as the skin from around his fingers began to stretch and peel back from the bone. He ended the spell early as he could see that the man was about to pass out again and he didn't have the time to wait until he woke up again. Right now, time was his enemy.
"Name. Now,"
"W-W-William. . . please stop, I don't know anything!"
He squatted next to the writhing man and absently tried to brush the dried blood from his forehead. "I would love to let you go, William, and I will once you tell me who sent you after me."
"I don't know, sir! Honest! We were told to find a man who looks like you through a letter!"
He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy, but then again, it's not like it's been a cake walk so far. "Alright, Will, you're free."
As he walked away from the charred corpse of William the Bandit, he allowed himself a moment to laugh. Freedom can have so many meanings.
The feel of a blade passing through the chest of a person at a high velocity feels much like sticking a branch into a pool of mud. His sword drove through the man before he was able to shout for help. Spinning around the impaled body, he caught the second man solidly on the chin with his elbow, sending him spinning to the ground. Another quick dart to the left, dodging a hasty sword stroke, feeling the sparks from the blade hitting stone strike hotly on his neck, he muttered a quick spell, sending a flash of green flame toward the third attacker, enveloping him, leaving nothing but a smoldering pile of bone and armor. He turned and drove his knee into the face of the man still alive, sending him sprawling to the ground once more. He retrieved his sword from the first man and cleaned the blade on the fallen mans cloak. With a face harsher than the deepest winter, he slowly walked back to where the unconscious man lay, ready to get some answers.
"Wake up".
A kick to the ribs caused the man to stir, his glazed eyes slowly attempting to refocus as he struggled against his bonds/ He watched his captive struggle against the spectral bonds and saw the look of animalistic fear in his wild eyes. A fear intensified by the blood of his friends that was splattered across his face, though not a little bit of it was his as well.
"What's your name?"
He wiped the spit from his cheek and began to speak a spell in a low voice which, once released, caused the man to scream as the skin from around his fingers began to stretch and peel back from the bone. He ended the spell early as he could see that the man was about to pass out again and he didn't have the time to wait until he woke up again. Right now, time was his enemy.
"Name. Now,"
"W-W-William. . . please stop, I don't know anything!"
He squatted next to the writhing man and absently tried to brush the dried blood from his forehead. "I would love to let you go, William, and I will once you tell me who sent you after me."
"I don't know, sir! Honest! We were told to find a man who looks like you through a letter!"
He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy, but then again, it's not like it's been a cake walk so far. "Alright, Will, you're free."
As he walked away from the charred corpse of William the Bandit, he allowed himself a moment to laugh. Freedom can have so many meanings.
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