Post by Death Incarnate on May 8, 2016 2:31:58 GMT -6
Tales told from the memories of the few who had lived in the Old Era called it the Temple of the Primals, yet such an appellation wasn’t accurate...and had not been for years. Walls were only a suggestion at this point, and from a distance the remnants could be mistaken for foliage grown beyond man’s control. One had to know what they were seeking, and even then they were likely to pass the grounds on several turns before a half-hidden flagstone or dismembered statue gave away the temple’s existence. At least for most pilgrims and would-be explorers such was the case.
The white-robed priestess, or so she referred to herself, followed the tales and ramblings of her aged guide to near-perfection, striding through the thick underbrush and over broken cobblestone thoroughfares to find herself at the center of what once was. The tapping of the man’s gnarled staff was distant at first, his pace not a match for the once-child’s, but he soon caught up to her as a gust of chilly air threatened to toss back the hood of her white wool robes.
“Yours is the sight of the Gods themselves, child. More seasoned travellers than you would lose months, perhaps years, finding this place.”
Though bent by age, the man was possessed of vitality and acute awareness. The girl folded her hands before her, each thrust into the opposite sleeve of her robes. Her voice was soft, the sweet caress of sunlight as it first peeks above the craggy horizon.
“It called to me.”
“Not something I would admit to, child, were I you,” the old man replied, using the tip of his staff to sweep bent reeds and dead flora from an oak-and-iron trapdoor. The entrance was bolted into the bleached stone, though by now the affixing spikes of cold metal were deeply rusted. “There are those of fanciful imaginations who might think you mad or else some sorceress come to raise the ire of Those Who Ride.”
A pale hand lifts, the back held before her lips as the priestess laughs softly. It is a sweet sound, yet it chills the man’s bones, bringing him to the point of feeling his age for a few moments.
“No, ser. To do so one would have to know their true names. Is that not so?”
“That is what the Storied Ones say, yes.”
Whirling in a flutter of white wool above and cerulean silk beneath, the priestess steps toward the man with surprisingly alacrity. He flinches back, not expecting the motion, but freezes when she leans down and says a single word into his withered ear. A whistle of wind through the hollow frames of a window nearby carry away the word as the man falls limp to the ground, dead and gone. Kneeling by him, the priestess draws an ornate, bone-handled dagger from within her sleeve, the curved blade gleaming in the low light of the waning sun.
“She has come to feast.”
- Excerpt from The Book of the End
May 1st, 2016, 9:22am
The Compound - Malibu, California
Emma’s Study
Three days beyond war, in more ways than one, finds all of the Horsewomen dealing with the battle’s outcome in different ways. Katalina spent more time with her new paramour, savoring the lack of need for secrecy surrounding the relationship. Talon was pushing herself harder than ever in the Compound’s training center, splitting her time between bouts with her husband Sentinel and Ophelia of The Chosen. And Emma? She had been remarkably silent, even calm, since the three-on-one handicap match at Breakthrough 44 that saw Joanna defeat her sisters in shocking fashion. This morning, Emma was once again in her study, the very same room from which she made her address to her lover, partner and fellow Horsewoman in the lead-up to the aforementioned.
However, the differences were notable, both in her surroundings and in the woman herself. Though never explicitly stated, Death struck as a lady who took some amount of pride in her appearance, seldom stepping before the camera or into a wrestling ring without a professional air surrounding her both in figure and attire. Evidence lingers in the form of cuts and bruises as to the ferocity shown by the Horsewomen days ago, and by Emma’s own admission she has yet to cease tasting blood, though we can see that the leader of the group maintains her physical poise. It is odd to see her looking so casual beyond that, however; barefoot and moving silently about the study, every nail, be it finger or toe, painted a glossy black. Loose-fitting gray sweats hug securely only at her waist, swishing a bit with her measured steps. The blank tank top...well, we know of Emma’s preference of showing as little flesh as possible, and the sleeveless garment shows the scars along her arms, shoulders, back and abdomen clearly...pink lines streaking across her pale skin.
As for the room itself, the brief time that the view sweeps its interior, we note the differences from last time, such as the increased number of books resting upon the shelves, most of them hardcover and well-aged. The desk, as well, had more going for it. The laptop resting at the center is open with previously-noted lamp in its own spot. A phone also rests upon the desk along with a framed photo or two and, as well, a blast from Emma’s past: the stuffed penguin Melchior. Dark, tri-colored hair hangs loose and unbrushed about her shoulders as Emma ceases her wandering and puts her attention on the laptop. She taps a few keys there, the light flickering upon her face until, as if distracted by someone speaking, she lifts her icy blue eyes toward us. There’s a thin, trace smile that tugs at her black lips before her expression becomes impassive again. She walks around the desk and leans against the front, arms folded loosely at her midsection.
”You think so, do you? Don’t let him hear you say that,” Emma retorts as she extends an arm to gather the tuxedoed and top-hatted penguin, clutching him close to her chest. ”He has feelings, same as you.”
Her head canting to the side a little, Emma’s lower lip finds its way between her teeth, a brief expression of discomfort before her face twists into a snarl. Noticeably, she clutches Melchior closer.
”I have no use for them. That has always been your concern, even as you slept.”
Death is obviously speaking to someone, but we cannot hear anyone else speaking. Still, she reacts to the response, squeezing the penguin even more tightly, her cheek turning to rest upon his hatted head.
”That has nothing to do with this. Is it that strange that I am choosing to do something for another simply because? Do you and the rest really think me that heartless? Death is not without warmth within…” Emma trails off but doesn’t finish her thought. Something said to her in response, though, has her snap her head up. She doesn’t look forward...no, she glares. ”You forget yourself. An accord we may have now, but that does not excuse speaking or acting so cavalierly! Remember who holds the key in this!”
Placing Melchior back in his stuffed chair atop the desk (yes, the penguin has a throne), Emma folds her arms again, this time as though they were armor against a threat. Closing her eyes, she sucks in a deep breath through her nose before letting it back out past her lips.
”Of course I’m thinking about the match. What? Worried? I do hope that you’re making a poor attempt at humor, saying that…”
Pushing off the desk, Emma approaches the lounge area of the study, hands upon the back of one of the overstuffed armchairs, her face trapped between a smirk and a glare.
”Winter Pine does not give me pause any more than her overblown, tantrum-throwing boyfriend or their leash-carrying champion. It’s one thing to leave roses lying around while spilling the blood of your enemies, playing at being some manner of artistic sociopath. It’s another to stand before a being that angels and demons alike fear and dare to look it in the eye as it strikes you down.” A smile, even an evil one, would have been appropriate along with her pointed words, but Emma’s face is stony. ”Stacy Jones can’t live up to her own words and Katie Moicelle had to nearly destroy herself just to bring down Talon when last they clashed. Zelda Lawson, while sweet, is just a woman and not a fighter. Winter might think highly of herself for tormenting them in fashions varying in intensity, but the last time she faced a Horsewomen in a match she spent a while on the shelf. And that was before War achieved her evolution...”
All set to speak further on the matter, Emma is cut off by something. Her fingers are digging into the leather of the chair though thankfully not damaging the upholstery. After a few moments, however, she continues...albeit in a quieter, calmer tone.
”...what are you talking about?”
The look of confusion on Emma’s pale face is replaced by one of grim determination above which rest glittering blue eyes alive with delicious malice.
”I know exactly what Stacy is doing.” Emma retorts sharply, standing up straight again. ”A better question is this: does Stacy know what she is doing?” The query lingers for a moment before Death answers as coldly as her moniker might indicate. ”No. And she won’t until it’s too late. She stood before the mirror and spoke the name of Death Incarnate thrice, summoning my presence within her battleground. And that will not end with a battered, broken Winter Pine. Best that Miss No Fear and No Negativty learns that while time remains to steel herself for my consequences.”
The conversation, one-sided as it seemed, might have continued were it not for an insistent beeping from the desktop phone, coupled with a flashing red light on the base. Turning on her bare heel, Emma strides over to the desk and presses a button on the phone.
”Yes?”
The voice of Ellimere speaks clearly through the phone’s speaker.
”Mistress, your package has arrived. Shall I send it to the studio to await you?”
”Yes, Ellimere. And what of the documents and information I requested?”
”Notarized, printed and awaiting the appropriate signatures.”
Something akin to relief permeates the wall of cold focus and wroth percolating all about Emma for a few moments.
”Send that as well. Inform Fury, Strife and the rest that I will meet them in the conference room in half an hour for the meeting.”
”As you command, Mistress.”
The call ends and Emma puts both palms flat on the desk, breathing somewhat heavily...as though a weight is pressing down on her. Her arms tense so potently that we can see the muscles and tendons bunching up along the lengths of pale, scarred flesh. She lifts her head a little, as though hearing something from far off, and speaks in a very small voice.
”I am. Do you think that is strange? Do you think I am wrong?”
Peering through her unbound hair in the same direction as before, whatever response is given to Emma seems to calm her a little.
”Yes, it really is. It is for the best in more ways than one. For both of us.”
Steeling herself a bit, Emma walks away from the desk and out of the study. To whom she spoke is not shown before the scene fades to black.
May 1st, 2016, 10:51am
The Compound - Malibu, California
Conference Room
It is, naturally, far beyond the prescribed half-hour that Emma stated when queried on the matter, but as we can easily tell the meeting has been going on for some time. Two glass pitchers in varying states of emptiness rest in the center of the long table with glasses set before each of the room’s occupants. Even Emma herself, though Death is not sitting but pacing back and forth at the head of the table. Immediately to her left and right are Talon and Katalina Star, respectively, neither accompanied by their typical seconds. Fury and Strife are pointedly watching Death as she paces, Emma having between then and now changed into tight black jeans and a similarly form-fitting top, once more covering all possible flesh. All five of the original Chosen sit at the table also, though conspicuous by her absence is Eleanor Merriweather.
After a little bit more of attempting to wear a trench in the carpet, Emma stops with her back to the assemblage, hands clasped behind her back. Her shoulders rise and fall beneath her brushed-out hair, her head lowering visibly.
”Are we all in agreement, then?”
Talon raps her knuckles softly against the table’s surface.
”Aye.”
Likewise, Katalina leans back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other while fixing a calm smile on Emma’s back.
”For certain.”
When it comes to the Chosen, however, only three of them voice responses in the positive. Two of them, specifically Eve and Ophelia, are against the matter put to table this morning. Emma turns to look over her shoulder as the other five fix stares upon their dissenting associates. Talon’s hand clenches into a fist while Katalina’s brow arches, her usually genial expression becoming chilly with startling swiftness. Ellimere is the most severe of the Chosen, her palm smacking against the table hard enough, almost, to upset her water glass. Luca and Pandora merely exchange glances.
”You have felt her wrath more than once, Ophelia, and you, Eve, have dealt with the aftermath of her rage. You, more than any others residing here, have reason to doubt this decision. I have certainly taken that into consideration. However, the proof was seen, heard and felt by Those Who Ride. Can either of you refute the changes we have all experienced?”
Ophelia remains silent on the matter, though Eve deigns to speak up. The soft-haired, plaintive medic has a calm, quiet voice.
”It is not that we question you or your choice, Mistress. It is more than we have always known you as you are. This shakes our very foundations at a critical time. It feels...rushed and reactive.”
”I respect that viewpoint, but you speak as if this shall be a grand, instantaneous change. No, it will actually be quite measured and gradual. The trust you have shown in me I only ask that you show her in this. In the same sweep that our path has been changed, so might it be reverted if that is what suits our mission. Do you understand?”
Upon considering those words and the meaning behind them, Eve nods as does Ophelia. Emma, having turn to look upon them, responds in kind.
”Then, my sisters, we shall see this come to pass at Breakthrough. Though you shall not see violence of your own then, I wish you to be there as Joanna assaults Elskerinne and I deliver violence unto Winter Pine. We will soon stand upon their grandest stage of all...and drink the suffering of the Visionaries when they are to be at their mightiest.”
There is most certainly an intense reaction, if a quiet one, from Katalina and Talon, at those words. Likewise the Chosen are nodding amongst themselves, knowing that they have their own parts to play. Emma looks around at them before gesturing subtly.
”Dismissed. However, before you go, Ellimere...is Eleanor on her way?”
”She should be here within minutes.”
”Send her to the studio. Tell her I await her there.”
”Yes, Mistress.”
The group disperses, leaving Emma alone in the room. She turns once again, facing the wall upon which the insignias of each of the Horsewomen rest, polished and gleaming, silver against ebony. She stares in silence for a few moments before a whisper escapes.
”Until that time comes…”
But she does not finish her thought before the scene fades to black.
May 6th, 2016, 2:30pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Main Hallway
The first view this time is that of a door, which does not matter so much in and of itself. At least, not as much as what, or rather who, is behind it. Joanna Thade, War of the Horsewomen, kicks the door open and wanders through whistling a tune far too chipper for the wild woman that Emma refers to as her ‘Bloody Queen’. Soot-stained, flesh slick and clothing darkened by perspiration and perhaps more, Joanna strides through the passage with Hephty resting on her shoulder and her thick blacksmith’s apron flapping with every step. Her blue hair is drawn back messily, a fair bit dropping into her face despite attempts to blow it out of the way and her expression is an odd sort of serene offset by wild eyes.
Down the hall she strides, paying little mind to her surroundings. However, after several paces she turns the corner and stops. Her face shifts to reflect curiosity with a slight widening to her eyes. Ahead of her, stepping out of another room, is Emma herself. A dress of eggplant purple designed in a style nearly a century old is draped about Death’s athletic body, so long that it nearly pools on the floor at her feet. The velvet flowers at the midsection of the garment match the one in her hair, which is unbound and falling in gentle waves over her bare shoulders. A wide-brimmed hat of the same color is held in her hand but as she turns to leave she pauses and gives her attention to Joanna, who is still stopped in her tracks at the sight. To her credit, War’s appearance also has Emma’s attention, oddly enough for the same unspoken reason.
"I would ask who died, but I know that this is for some special occasion." Joanna states while looking Emma up and down, licking her lips like a wolf that smells fresh meat. Circling Death, Joanna lets out a gawking whistle before adding to her first statement. "Might we need to discuss that ‘apple’ issue again? 'Cause I think I like you in a formal dress."
"Every once in a while, a lesson needs teaching in a more subtle fashion than my typically heavy-handed methods." Emma runs her palms and fingertips along the darkly-colored material of the gown, smirking slightly. "Whether or not they understand said lesson is another matter entirely."
Raising an eyebrow, Joanna lets her crooked smile take over her face before nodding her understanding.
"Personally, I enjoy your heavy-handed methods."
Joanna closes the distance between the two of them with a playfully purpose-filled walk. Leaning in so her mouth was a breath away from Emma's exposed neck she whispered her unfiltered thoughts to her Goldie.
"You embody the beauty and breathtaking nature of Death, my love. If we weren't busy that dress would be hiding me as I feasted on my favorite nectar."
The blue-haired woman’s pulling back leaves Emma face-to-face with her hungry, wickedly-smiling lover. Emma meets the forward, unabashed retort of her lover with a smile that's a little TOO serene for the nihilistic Horsewoman. Death, it would seem, is in a very peculiar state right now, with the smile alone telling that tale. She brings a hand up, combing it through Joanna's sweaty hair and touching her cheek to War's as her lips grace the soft, sooty skin there.
"Later, my Bloody Queen. You shall have your taste and more."
Joanna's face flushes to the point Emma's pet name could be used to describe the color of the blue-haired Visionary’s cheeks easily. Biting her lip, the Warchild lets out a deep moan while nodding her understanding. Taking the opportunity, Joanna looks into the Emma's eyes, both women losing themselves in a rare moment of pure bliss. The Bloody Queen is the first to break the spell as she flutters her watery eyes before a single tear falls down her cheek. Such joy and happiness was unfamiliar to Joanna, but that was why empires could rise and fall, the world could end, or the reaper could knock on the door and still Joanna wouldn't leave Emma's side.
"I love you."
Joanna whispers, barely getting those words out before her voice catches in her throat to prevent another sound. Leaning in a second time, Emma ensures that that single tear never reaches the floor. Her red-touched lips kiss it away, the proximity more than enough for Emma to whisper the same words back to her lover. Though the same emotion isn't visible upon Emma's features, that ever-so-slight flush of her pale cheeks and the gentle tremor of her hand upon Joanna's cheek gives away the heavy dose of feelings regardless. They linger within one another's eyes a few moments more before Emma slips away. For the time being, business calls. Later, none would be heard by Death and War save their own voices to one another's ears.
May 6th, 2016, 6:15pm
Black Gold Casino - outside Las Vegas, Nevada
Calling this place a building anymore would be the most gracious of compliments. Calling it an establishment would be a bald-faced lie. Yet as the sky dims near sunset, leaving Sin City proper to sparkle in the oncoming night like so many jewels, the place lights up as it did once upon a time. A suited man stands outside the cracked glass doors, dressed stylishly and standing like a statue. It isn’t until the familiar black sedan pulls up that he lifts his head, the lower half of his face masked as he walks to the rear passenger door and opens it. Emma steps from the back as we had seen her before, save for the wide-brimmed hat to match her dress and the black satin gloves reaching to her elbows. Elegance and danger are woven into her being, a tapestry of chaos few can pull off anymore, her fellow Horsewomen included.
The doorman takes a bow though Emma does not turn his way, instead pressing something into his open palm the moment his hand raises. Her words are whispered, yet easily heard.
”One hour. Not a second more.”
”Ma’am.”
Entering the car through the door from which she had just stepped, the man is driven off while Emma lets herself into the former Black Gold Casino. Certainly there was a tale to tell about how this place had turned into a blackened, gutted-out ruin, barely fit to stand against a rough wind or two. But as to that, Emma was not here to enlighten us. Instead she strides through the wreckage, glass cracking and wood creaking at her every step. Knowing exactly where she’s going, she finds her way to a table and stool covered in old white cloth.
Emma strokes the top of the cloth with a gloved hand, a thin smile peering from beneath her hat before she grasps the cloth upon the table and whips it away. A little dust, or perhaps ash, is unsettled by the revelation yet she pays it no mind. It is the table beneath that is her focus: a craps table, fully acquitted. The stool was just that, cushioned and sturdy, uncovered in the same manner. Emma took a seat upon it, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing out her long gown. Leaning in just a bit, she props an elbow on the edge of the table and rests her chin in her open palm, her eyes sparking beneath the hat as she stares into the camera.
”Stacy fancied war to be a game and as such gambled her chances at retribution and closure versus her hated adversary on a roll of the dice. And despite them bones coming up snake eyes…”
Another woman, clad in the garb of a dealer, saunters up to the table and picks up a polished stick, with which she pushes a pair of dice toward Emma’s waiting fingers. Between index and middle Death lifts the oddly-colored dice. She’d used the term ‘bones’ for them, an old-school term to be sure...yet upon closer inspection we can see that they’re made of exactly that: bone. From what, or who, we could not say. But they’re far from the semi-clear red and white more typical in proper establishments these days. Emma rolls the dotted cubes about in her palm, licking her crimson lips.
”...she pushed her chips forward and kept right on going, spending her soul as well as her wealth. I would admire you, Stacy, if you weren’t so utterly foolish. Winter might have spared you, and little Katie, had you the sense to keep your best play in reserve until the pivotal moment. Instead, you wielded the name that ends everything as though you had every right.” Malice slips into her calm, almost-sweet tone. Calm of expression, Emma rattles the dice in her hands and tosses them onto the table. ”And who could fault you for that? Everyone wants to feel powerful at one point or another. They want to save someone dear to them, to mete out justice or the punish the guilty. They get off on the rush of being the be-all and end-all amongst all they survey. Power, as they say, corrupts.” The dice bounce, roll, dance...and come up as a three and a four respectively. ”Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
Another woman, her face masked like the lady already on the other side of the table and the man at the doors, comes to Emma’s side. She bears a tray of chips in various colors and Emma, not looking her way, gathers a few pink ones from the left row and sets them on the Pass line. Hers is a musing expression now, noted as she lifts her head enough that the hat merely shadows rather than hides the bulk of her smooth, scarred features.
”But not everyone can be me, children.”
No smile, no hint of amusement. The dice are pushed back her way as the woman bearing the chips returns to the shadow. All around them, the walls are blackened by smoke and ash, the floors a tattered ruin. In this one small area of the building, however, the ravages of time and catastrophe do not exist.
”You’ll learn that soon, Miss Jones. As for you, Winter…” Emma shrugs beautifully, her bare shoulders rising and falling gracefully. ”...there’s just something about Veronica.”
The dice are pushed her way and Emma picks them up again, the white of the bleached bone in stark contrast to the black satin coating her hand. She eyes the cubes critically, recalling memories from long ago.
”Last time her name was Valiant. She ran with the upscale crowd, treading upon ground mere mortals could only gaze at from a distance. The world was handed to her on a platter of gilded silver in terms of wealth, adulation and opportunity. Groomed and poised by her keepers, revered and reviled in the same breath, she was destined for greatness. ‘Tis true. Ask her and those who held her upon her pedestal and they shall tell you the same. And at the zenith of her power and influence, she sought to wrest from the hands of a goddess treasured, golden divinity.” Losing herself a bit in memory, Emma smiles again albeit faintly, before suddenly clutching the dice in her hand tightly. Had her flesh not been covered, the edges of the die might have cut into her pale flesh. ”And then I happened. She forgot herself, then, and reverted to the low beast she’d once been. Once an animal, always an animal, and the scent of blood and meat was too much for the bleached-blonde whore to stand. She slavered and raged, demanding retribution for the cold, calculating words I used to strip away her facade. And she who would become a goddess herself learned that even the deities on high or buried in the darkness bow to Death.”
Her striking blue eyes avert to the camera, which has an excellent view beneath the hat...which becomes moot as Emma takes it off. Her hair is swept up atop her head, a bundle of ringlets falling to the sides and back, held in place with a pair of black chopsticks.
”All it took was a few words on social media and a cold, firm promise to put her in a position to lose all that she sought. She, too, rolled them bones. And she lost.” She stares upon the table as though her gaze would burn it to cinders like the rest of the rotted-out casino. ”What makes you think you are or will be any different, Winter?”
While keeping her eyes on the camera, Emma tosses the dice again. A five and a two come up, the corners of her lips twitching as the bones settle.
”Valiant danced at the beck and call of one Stella Chalmers-Blythe, a woman who thought an expensive desk with a shiny nameplate gave her power. You dance on the strings of Casanova English, who thinks an expensive belt with his name on it gives him power. Valiant used her money and her mouth to get her way, all but ignoring her capacity for battle. You use mind games and sociopathy, ignoring the long-term ramifications for short-term satisfaction.” Smirking faintly, Emma again retrieves the dice. We can hear them grind together in her grip. ”Valiant would throw herself between anyone’s legs, at any time, without a care. In that at least you have some semblance of sense, though your choice in partners is dubious at best. And that alone isn’t enough to obfuscate the other similarities.” Opening her hand, Emma blows softly on the dice but pauses before tossing them again. ”What is my point, did you ask?”
She lets the bones fly from her fingertips, down to the far end of the table where they bounce over the steadily-growing pile of chips there. Yet another seven, this time a six and a one. She does not, however, look in their direction. Her eyes are locked on the camera, on Winter.
”I know your type, Veronica. You’re not special. You’re not different. You’re the same monster with a different mask. Petty, over-opinionated, sadistic, greedy and egotistical. Oh, there’s the capacity for more in you. At one point, we even considered you as being worthy of riding with us.” A few moments are allowed for that to sink in since some might find the admission surprising. ”But that ship has sailed. Invariably you would have tried to rise beyond your station and we Horsewomen do not suffer actions that hinder our mission. The mission...is everything. That’s why this battle means twice the suffering for you. Suffering that you’ll share with young Miss Jones. And there, dear Veronica, is the rub.”
Once again the dice are pushed her way. Once again, she takes them up.
”See, neither of you considered the consequences. I might simply do as Stacy wishes and batter you into submission so that she can choose the battleground for your war at Fate of the Gods. Or Chaos might have other plans for me and offer you an opening for victory.” Accepting but obviously not desirous of such an outcome, Emma shrugs and carries on. ”Or maybe I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life, rendering you incommensurate to further competition for a while, thus denying both you AND Stacy your desired vengeance. Or,” as a few notes of laughter bubble in her throat, behind a predatory smile, ”I might just keep myself backstage and watch you smile and Stacy go slack-jawed, handing you a victory by no-show and handing you the opportunity Stacy so covets and must go through her lover to attain. Cute play in that, by the by. Cliche and predictable, but cute.” The term is delivered more as a minor insult than a compliment, however. Emma rolls the dice between her fingertips, gazing at them in a languid fashion. ”Or...I’ll break Stacy in half personally, ending her chances at revenge and yours to satisfy your bloodlust. Unless, in addition to that, I rip you apart with my bare hands and bring denial not only to you two, but to VoW and its fans a whole. Decisions, decisions.”
Her show of indecision is almost as endearing as it is beautiful. Without context, she’d be a striking figure of a woman in 1920s finery sitting in a ruined casino musing over the fates of others with a mixture of amusement and wickedness. It would be an interesting moment of exposition and little more. Knowing that this is Death Incarnate herself, Emma Carlisle...makes it scary. And somehow even more enticing.
”For good or ill, Stacy has put all the power in my hands. I neither sought nor desired it, but such is life. Whereas Chaos tipped its hand last time to show War the path to ultimate dominance over her sisters, now it places the fates of Stacy Jones and Winter Pine into the hands of she who will witness the beginning and the end of everything that is.” Another toss of the dice brings them up as snake eyes, which makes Emma laugh sharply. ”Couldn’t have put it better myself. Two serpentine eyes, one staring at Stacy, the other at Winter. This is what happens, children, when you don’t think before you act. The Orphan aims for the the heart of The Outcast. The Outcast draws a poisoned blade from it’s boot to bring low The Oprhan. They face one another separated only by air and opportunity, seeing naught else. And in this, they ignore the storm from above, the black clouds and the lightning knifing through air, earth and flesh alike.
Your futures are in my hands. The weapons you would bear against one another I will turn upon you both. Or not. After all, you gambled your fates on a roll of the dice. You set the standard by which you shall be judged. I’m merely following the terms you set. So, let us see your fates, shall we?”
She gathers up the dice one last time as the doorman returns, coming to a stop a few paces from Emma and bowing as he had beyond the doors, in the world of the living. Emma was on the verge of letting them fall as he walked in, and the dice still bounced as he bowed and spoke. The view averted from the table, to encompass only he and Emma.
”It has been one hour, ma’am. If you please?”
He gestures in the direction from which he came. The camera, seeking to turn and see what the roll came up as, is caught by Emma’s gloved hand. Before the dots charred into the bone are made visible, the device is instead refocused on Death.
”No, no...time’s up for now, dear. They’ll just have to learn the outcome of their words and actions come Breakthrough.”
The thought is deliciously humorous to her as she places her hat back on and walks out of the broken-down casino. Through the cracked, dusty glass doors, we can see her re-enter the sedan and it drive off. Turning back, the camera sees no one...only the table and stool, re-covered and hidden from sight.
Fade to black.
The white-robed priestess, or so she referred to herself, followed the tales and ramblings of her aged guide to near-perfection, striding through the thick underbrush and over broken cobblestone thoroughfares to find herself at the center of what once was. The tapping of the man’s gnarled staff was distant at first, his pace not a match for the once-child’s, but he soon caught up to her as a gust of chilly air threatened to toss back the hood of her white wool robes.
“Yours is the sight of the Gods themselves, child. More seasoned travellers than you would lose months, perhaps years, finding this place.”
Though bent by age, the man was possessed of vitality and acute awareness. The girl folded her hands before her, each thrust into the opposite sleeve of her robes. Her voice was soft, the sweet caress of sunlight as it first peeks above the craggy horizon.
“It called to me.”
“Not something I would admit to, child, were I you,” the old man replied, using the tip of his staff to sweep bent reeds and dead flora from an oak-and-iron trapdoor. The entrance was bolted into the bleached stone, though by now the affixing spikes of cold metal were deeply rusted. “There are those of fanciful imaginations who might think you mad or else some sorceress come to raise the ire of Those Who Ride.”
A pale hand lifts, the back held before her lips as the priestess laughs softly. It is a sweet sound, yet it chills the man’s bones, bringing him to the point of feeling his age for a few moments.
“No, ser. To do so one would have to know their true names. Is that not so?”
“That is what the Storied Ones say, yes.”
Whirling in a flutter of white wool above and cerulean silk beneath, the priestess steps toward the man with surprisingly alacrity. He flinches back, not expecting the motion, but freezes when she leans down and says a single word into his withered ear. A whistle of wind through the hollow frames of a window nearby carry away the word as the man falls limp to the ground, dead and gone. Kneeling by him, the priestess draws an ornate, bone-handled dagger from within her sleeve, the curved blade gleaming in the low light of the waning sun.
“She has come to feast.”
- Excerpt from The Book of the End
May 1st, 2016, 9:22am
The Compound - Malibu, California
Emma’s Study
Three days beyond war, in more ways than one, finds all of the Horsewomen dealing with the battle’s outcome in different ways. Katalina spent more time with her new paramour, savoring the lack of need for secrecy surrounding the relationship. Talon was pushing herself harder than ever in the Compound’s training center, splitting her time between bouts with her husband Sentinel and Ophelia of The Chosen. And Emma? She had been remarkably silent, even calm, since the three-on-one handicap match at Breakthrough 44 that saw Joanna defeat her sisters in shocking fashion. This morning, Emma was once again in her study, the very same room from which she made her address to her lover, partner and fellow Horsewoman in the lead-up to the aforementioned.
However, the differences were notable, both in her surroundings and in the woman herself. Though never explicitly stated, Death struck as a lady who took some amount of pride in her appearance, seldom stepping before the camera or into a wrestling ring without a professional air surrounding her both in figure and attire. Evidence lingers in the form of cuts and bruises as to the ferocity shown by the Horsewomen days ago, and by Emma’s own admission she has yet to cease tasting blood, though we can see that the leader of the group maintains her physical poise. It is odd to see her looking so casual beyond that, however; barefoot and moving silently about the study, every nail, be it finger or toe, painted a glossy black. Loose-fitting gray sweats hug securely only at her waist, swishing a bit with her measured steps. The blank tank top...well, we know of Emma’s preference of showing as little flesh as possible, and the sleeveless garment shows the scars along her arms, shoulders, back and abdomen clearly...pink lines streaking across her pale skin.
As for the room itself, the brief time that the view sweeps its interior, we note the differences from last time, such as the increased number of books resting upon the shelves, most of them hardcover and well-aged. The desk, as well, had more going for it. The laptop resting at the center is open with previously-noted lamp in its own spot. A phone also rests upon the desk along with a framed photo or two and, as well, a blast from Emma’s past: the stuffed penguin Melchior. Dark, tri-colored hair hangs loose and unbrushed about her shoulders as Emma ceases her wandering and puts her attention on the laptop. She taps a few keys there, the light flickering upon her face until, as if distracted by someone speaking, she lifts her icy blue eyes toward us. There’s a thin, trace smile that tugs at her black lips before her expression becomes impassive again. She walks around the desk and leans against the front, arms folded loosely at her midsection.
”You think so, do you? Don’t let him hear you say that,” Emma retorts as she extends an arm to gather the tuxedoed and top-hatted penguin, clutching him close to her chest. ”He has feelings, same as you.”
Her head canting to the side a little, Emma’s lower lip finds its way between her teeth, a brief expression of discomfort before her face twists into a snarl. Noticeably, she clutches Melchior closer.
”I have no use for them. That has always been your concern, even as you slept.”
Death is obviously speaking to someone, but we cannot hear anyone else speaking. Still, she reacts to the response, squeezing the penguin even more tightly, her cheek turning to rest upon his hatted head.
”That has nothing to do with this. Is it that strange that I am choosing to do something for another simply because? Do you and the rest really think me that heartless? Death is not without warmth within…” Emma trails off but doesn’t finish her thought. Something said to her in response, though, has her snap her head up. She doesn’t look forward...no, she glares. ”You forget yourself. An accord we may have now, but that does not excuse speaking or acting so cavalierly! Remember who holds the key in this!”
Placing Melchior back in his stuffed chair atop the desk (yes, the penguin has a throne), Emma folds her arms again, this time as though they were armor against a threat. Closing her eyes, she sucks in a deep breath through her nose before letting it back out past her lips.
”Of course I’m thinking about the match. What? Worried? I do hope that you’re making a poor attempt at humor, saying that…”
Pushing off the desk, Emma approaches the lounge area of the study, hands upon the back of one of the overstuffed armchairs, her face trapped between a smirk and a glare.
”Winter Pine does not give me pause any more than her overblown, tantrum-throwing boyfriend or their leash-carrying champion. It’s one thing to leave roses lying around while spilling the blood of your enemies, playing at being some manner of artistic sociopath. It’s another to stand before a being that angels and demons alike fear and dare to look it in the eye as it strikes you down.” A smile, even an evil one, would have been appropriate along with her pointed words, but Emma’s face is stony. ”Stacy Jones can’t live up to her own words and Katie Moicelle had to nearly destroy herself just to bring down Talon when last they clashed. Zelda Lawson, while sweet, is just a woman and not a fighter. Winter might think highly of herself for tormenting them in fashions varying in intensity, but the last time she faced a Horsewomen in a match she spent a while on the shelf. And that was before War achieved her evolution...”
All set to speak further on the matter, Emma is cut off by something. Her fingers are digging into the leather of the chair though thankfully not damaging the upholstery. After a few moments, however, she continues...albeit in a quieter, calmer tone.
”...what are you talking about?”
The look of confusion on Emma’s pale face is replaced by one of grim determination above which rest glittering blue eyes alive with delicious malice.
”I know exactly what Stacy is doing.” Emma retorts sharply, standing up straight again. ”A better question is this: does Stacy know what she is doing?” The query lingers for a moment before Death answers as coldly as her moniker might indicate. ”No. And she won’t until it’s too late. She stood before the mirror and spoke the name of Death Incarnate thrice, summoning my presence within her battleground. And that will not end with a battered, broken Winter Pine. Best that Miss No Fear and No Negativty learns that while time remains to steel herself for my consequences.”
The conversation, one-sided as it seemed, might have continued were it not for an insistent beeping from the desktop phone, coupled with a flashing red light on the base. Turning on her bare heel, Emma strides over to the desk and presses a button on the phone.
”Yes?”
The voice of Ellimere speaks clearly through the phone’s speaker.
”Mistress, your package has arrived. Shall I send it to the studio to await you?”
”Yes, Ellimere. And what of the documents and information I requested?”
”Notarized, printed and awaiting the appropriate signatures.”
Something akin to relief permeates the wall of cold focus and wroth percolating all about Emma for a few moments.
”Send that as well. Inform Fury, Strife and the rest that I will meet them in the conference room in half an hour for the meeting.”
”As you command, Mistress.”
The call ends and Emma puts both palms flat on the desk, breathing somewhat heavily...as though a weight is pressing down on her. Her arms tense so potently that we can see the muscles and tendons bunching up along the lengths of pale, scarred flesh. She lifts her head a little, as though hearing something from far off, and speaks in a very small voice.
”I am. Do you think that is strange? Do you think I am wrong?”
Peering through her unbound hair in the same direction as before, whatever response is given to Emma seems to calm her a little.
”Yes, it really is. It is for the best in more ways than one. For both of us.”
Steeling herself a bit, Emma walks away from the desk and out of the study. To whom she spoke is not shown before the scene fades to black.
~*~
May 1st, 2016, 10:51am
The Compound - Malibu, California
Conference Room
It is, naturally, far beyond the prescribed half-hour that Emma stated when queried on the matter, but as we can easily tell the meeting has been going on for some time. Two glass pitchers in varying states of emptiness rest in the center of the long table with glasses set before each of the room’s occupants. Even Emma herself, though Death is not sitting but pacing back and forth at the head of the table. Immediately to her left and right are Talon and Katalina Star, respectively, neither accompanied by their typical seconds. Fury and Strife are pointedly watching Death as she paces, Emma having between then and now changed into tight black jeans and a similarly form-fitting top, once more covering all possible flesh. All five of the original Chosen sit at the table also, though conspicuous by her absence is Eleanor Merriweather.
After a little bit more of attempting to wear a trench in the carpet, Emma stops with her back to the assemblage, hands clasped behind her back. Her shoulders rise and fall beneath her brushed-out hair, her head lowering visibly.
”Are we all in agreement, then?”
Talon raps her knuckles softly against the table’s surface.
”Aye.”
Likewise, Katalina leans back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other while fixing a calm smile on Emma’s back.
”For certain.”
When it comes to the Chosen, however, only three of them voice responses in the positive. Two of them, specifically Eve and Ophelia, are against the matter put to table this morning. Emma turns to look over her shoulder as the other five fix stares upon their dissenting associates. Talon’s hand clenches into a fist while Katalina’s brow arches, her usually genial expression becoming chilly with startling swiftness. Ellimere is the most severe of the Chosen, her palm smacking against the table hard enough, almost, to upset her water glass. Luca and Pandora merely exchange glances.
”You have felt her wrath more than once, Ophelia, and you, Eve, have dealt with the aftermath of her rage. You, more than any others residing here, have reason to doubt this decision. I have certainly taken that into consideration. However, the proof was seen, heard and felt by Those Who Ride. Can either of you refute the changes we have all experienced?”
Ophelia remains silent on the matter, though Eve deigns to speak up. The soft-haired, plaintive medic has a calm, quiet voice.
”It is not that we question you or your choice, Mistress. It is more than we have always known you as you are. This shakes our very foundations at a critical time. It feels...rushed and reactive.”
”I respect that viewpoint, but you speak as if this shall be a grand, instantaneous change. No, it will actually be quite measured and gradual. The trust you have shown in me I only ask that you show her in this. In the same sweep that our path has been changed, so might it be reverted if that is what suits our mission. Do you understand?”
Upon considering those words and the meaning behind them, Eve nods as does Ophelia. Emma, having turn to look upon them, responds in kind.
”Then, my sisters, we shall see this come to pass at Breakthrough. Though you shall not see violence of your own then, I wish you to be there as Joanna assaults Elskerinne and I deliver violence unto Winter Pine. We will soon stand upon their grandest stage of all...and drink the suffering of the Visionaries when they are to be at their mightiest.”
There is most certainly an intense reaction, if a quiet one, from Katalina and Talon, at those words. Likewise the Chosen are nodding amongst themselves, knowing that they have their own parts to play. Emma looks around at them before gesturing subtly.
”Dismissed. However, before you go, Ellimere...is Eleanor on her way?”
”She should be here within minutes.”
”Send her to the studio. Tell her I await her there.”
”Yes, Mistress.”
The group disperses, leaving Emma alone in the room. She turns once again, facing the wall upon which the insignias of each of the Horsewomen rest, polished and gleaming, silver against ebony. She stares in silence for a few moments before a whisper escapes.
”Until that time comes…”
But she does not finish her thought before the scene fades to black.
~*~
May 6th, 2016, 2:30pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Main Hallway
The first view this time is that of a door, which does not matter so much in and of itself. At least, not as much as what, or rather who, is behind it. Joanna Thade, War of the Horsewomen, kicks the door open and wanders through whistling a tune far too chipper for the wild woman that Emma refers to as her ‘Bloody Queen’. Soot-stained, flesh slick and clothing darkened by perspiration and perhaps more, Joanna strides through the passage with Hephty resting on her shoulder and her thick blacksmith’s apron flapping with every step. Her blue hair is drawn back messily, a fair bit dropping into her face despite attempts to blow it out of the way and her expression is an odd sort of serene offset by wild eyes.
Down the hall she strides, paying little mind to her surroundings. However, after several paces she turns the corner and stops. Her face shifts to reflect curiosity with a slight widening to her eyes. Ahead of her, stepping out of another room, is Emma herself. A dress of eggplant purple designed in a style nearly a century old is draped about Death’s athletic body, so long that it nearly pools on the floor at her feet. The velvet flowers at the midsection of the garment match the one in her hair, which is unbound and falling in gentle waves over her bare shoulders. A wide-brimmed hat of the same color is held in her hand but as she turns to leave she pauses and gives her attention to Joanna, who is still stopped in her tracks at the sight. To her credit, War’s appearance also has Emma’s attention, oddly enough for the same unspoken reason.
"I would ask who died, but I know that this is for some special occasion." Joanna states while looking Emma up and down, licking her lips like a wolf that smells fresh meat. Circling Death, Joanna lets out a gawking whistle before adding to her first statement. "Might we need to discuss that ‘apple’ issue again? 'Cause I think I like you in a formal dress."
"Every once in a while, a lesson needs teaching in a more subtle fashion than my typically heavy-handed methods." Emma runs her palms and fingertips along the darkly-colored material of the gown, smirking slightly. "Whether or not they understand said lesson is another matter entirely."
Raising an eyebrow, Joanna lets her crooked smile take over her face before nodding her understanding.
"Personally, I enjoy your heavy-handed methods."
Joanna closes the distance between the two of them with a playfully purpose-filled walk. Leaning in so her mouth was a breath away from Emma's exposed neck she whispered her unfiltered thoughts to her Goldie.
"You embody the beauty and breathtaking nature of Death, my love. If we weren't busy that dress would be hiding me as I feasted on my favorite nectar."
The blue-haired woman’s pulling back leaves Emma face-to-face with her hungry, wickedly-smiling lover. Emma meets the forward, unabashed retort of her lover with a smile that's a little TOO serene for the nihilistic Horsewoman. Death, it would seem, is in a very peculiar state right now, with the smile alone telling that tale. She brings a hand up, combing it through Joanna's sweaty hair and touching her cheek to War's as her lips grace the soft, sooty skin there.
"Later, my Bloody Queen. You shall have your taste and more."
Joanna's face flushes to the point Emma's pet name could be used to describe the color of the blue-haired Visionary’s cheeks easily. Biting her lip, the Warchild lets out a deep moan while nodding her understanding. Taking the opportunity, Joanna looks into the Emma's eyes, both women losing themselves in a rare moment of pure bliss. The Bloody Queen is the first to break the spell as she flutters her watery eyes before a single tear falls down her cheek. Such joy and happiness was unfamiliar to Joanna, but that was why empires could rise and fall, the world could end, or the reaper could knock on the door and still Joanna wouldn't leave Emma's side.
"I love you."
Joanna whispers, barely getting those words out before her voice catches in her throat to prevent another sound. Leaning in a second time, Emma ensures that that single tear never reaches the floor. Her red-touched lips kiss it away, the proximity more than enough for Emma to whisper the same words back to her lover. Though the same emotion isn't visible upon Emma's features, that ever-so-slight flush of her pale cheeks and the gentle tremor of her hand upon Joanna's cheek gives away the heavy dose of feelings regardless. They linger within one another's eyes a few moments more before Emma slips away. For the time being, business calls. Later, none would be heard by Death and War save their own voices to one another's ears.
~*~
May 6th, 2016, 6:15pm
Black Gold Casino - outside Las Vegas, Nevada
Calling this place a building anymore would be the most gracious of compliments. Calling it an establishment would be a bald-faced lie. Yet as the sky dims near sunset, leaving Sin City proper to sparkle in the oncoming night like so many jewels, the place lights up as it did once upon a time. A suited man stands outside the cracked glass doors, dressed stylishly and standing like a statue. It isn’t until the familiar black sedan pulls up that he lifts his head, the lower half of his face masked as he walks to the rear passenger door and opens it. Emma steps from the back as we had seen her before, save for the wide-brimmed hat to match her dress and the black satin gloves reaching to her elbows. Elegance and danger are woven into her being, a tapestry of chaos few can pull off anymore, her fellow Horsewomen included.
The doorman takes a bow though Emma does not turn his way, instead pressing something into his open palm the moment his hand raises. Her words are whispered, yet easily heard.
”One hour. Not a second more.”
”Ma’am.”
Entering the car through the door from which she had just stepped, the man is driven off while Emma lets herself into the former Black Gold Casino. Certainly there was a tale to tell about how this place had turned into a blackened, gutted-out ruin, barely fit to stand against a rough wind or two. But as to that, Emma was not here to enlighten us. Instead she strides through the wreckage, glass cracking and wood creaking at her every step. Knowing exactly where she’s going, she finds her way to a table and stool covered in old white cloth.
Emma strokes the top of the cloth with a gloved hand, a thin smile peering from beneath her hat before she grasps the cloth upon the table and whips it away. A little dust, or perhaps ash, is unsettled by the revelation yet she pays it no mind. It is the table beneath that is her focus: a craps table, fully acquitted. The stool was just that, cushioned and sturdy, uncovered in the same manner. Emma took a seat upon it, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing out her long gown. Leaning in just a bit, she props an elbow on the edge of the table and rests her chin in her open palm, her eyes sparking beneath the hat as she stares into the camera.
”Stacy fancied war to be a game and as such gambled her chances at retribution and closure versus her hated adversary on a roll of the dice. And despite them bones coming up snake eyes…”
Another woman, clad in the garb of a dealer, saunters up to the table and picks up a polished stick, with which she pushes a pair of dice toward Emma’s waiting fingers. Between index and middle Death lifts the oddly-colored dice. She’d used the term ‘bones’ for them, an old-school term to be sure...yet upon closer inspection we can see that they’re made of exactly that: bone. From what, or who, we could not say. But they’re far from the semi-clear red and white more typical in proper establishments these days. Emma rolls the dotted cubes about in her palm, licking her crimson lips.
”...she pushed her chips forward and kept right on going, spending her soul as well as her wealth. I would admire you, Stacy, if you weren’t so utterly foolish. Winter might have spared you, and little Katie, had you the sense to keep your best play in reserve until the pivotal moment. Instead, you wielded the name that ends everything as though you had every right.” Malice slips into her calm, almost-sweet tone. Calm of expression, Emma rattles the dice in her hands and tosses them onto the table. ”And who could fault you for that? Everyone wants to feel powerful at one point or another. They want to save someone dear to them, to mete out justice or the punish the guilty. They get off on the rush of being the be-all and end-all amongst all they survey. Power, as they say, corrupts.” The dice bounce, roll, dance...and come up as a three and a four respectively. ”Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
Another woman, her face masked like the lady already on the other side of the table and the man at the doors, comes to Emma’s side. She bears a tray of chips in various colors and Emma, not looking her way, gathers a few pink ones from the left row and sets them on the Pass line. Hers is a musing expression now, noted as she lifts her head enough that the hat merely shadows rather than hides the bulk of her smooth, scarred features.
”But not everyone can be me, children.”
No smile, no hint of amusement. The dice are pushed back her way as the woman bearing the chips returns to the shadow. All around them, the walls are blackened by smoke and ash, the floors a tattered ruin. In this one small area of the building, however, the ravages of time and catastrophe do not exist.
”You’ll learn that soon, Miss Jones. As for you, Winter…” Emma shrugs beautifully, her bare shoulders rising and falling gracefully. ”...there’s just something about Veronica.”
The dice are pushed her way and Emma picks them up again, the white of the bleached bone in stark contrast to the black satin coating her hand. She eyes the cubes critically, recalling memories from long ago.
”Last time her name was Valiant. She ran with the upscale crowd, treading upon ground mere mortals could only gaze at from a distance. The world was handed to her on a platter of gilded silver in terms of wealth, adulation and opportunity. Groomed and poised by her keepers, revered and reviled in the same breath, she was destined for greatness. ‘Tis true. Ask her and those who held her upon her pedestal and they shall tell you the same. And at the zenith of her power and influence, she sought to wrest from the hands of a goddess treasured, golden divinity.” Losing herself a bit in memory, Emma smiles again albeit faintly, before suddenly clutching the dice in her hand tightly. Had her flesh not been covered, the edges of the die might have cut into her pale flesh. ”And then I happened. She forgot herself, then, and reverted to the low beast she’d once been. Once an animal, always an animal, and the scent of blood and meat was too much for the bleached-blonde whore to stand. She slavered and raged, demanding retribution for the cold, calculating words I used to strip away her facade. And she who would become a goddess herself learned that even the deities on high or buried in the darkness bow to Death.”
Her striking blue eyes avert to the camera, which has an excellent view beneath the hat...which becomes moot as Emma takes it off. Her hair is swept up atop her head, a bundle of ringlets falling to the sides and back, held in place with a pair of black chopsticks.
”All it took was a few words on social media and a cold, firm promise to put her in a position to lose all that she sought. She, too, rolled them bones. And she lost.” She stares upon the table as though her gaze would burn it to cinders like the rest of the rotted-out casino. ”What makes you think you are or will be any different, Winter?”
While keeping her eyes on the camera, Emma tosses the dice again. A five and a two come up, the corners of her lips twitching as the bones settle.
”Valiant danced at the beck and call of one Stella Chalmers-Blythe, a woman who thought an expensive desk with a shiny nameplate gave her power. You dance on the strings of Casanova English, who thinks an expensive belt with his name on it gives him power. Valiant used her money and her mouth to get her way, all but ignoring her capacity for battle. You use mind games and sociopathy, ignoring the long-term ramifications for short-term satisfaction.” Smirking faintly, Emma again retrieves the dice. We can hear them grind together in her grip. ”Valiant would throw herself between anyone’s legs, at any time, without a care. In that at least you have some semblance of sense, though your choice in partners is dubious at best. And that alone isn’t enough to obfuscate the other similarities.” Opening her hand, Emma blows softly on the dice but pauses before tossing them again. ”What is my point, did you ask?”
She lets the bones fly from her fingertips, down to the far end of the table where they bounce over the steadily-growing pile of chips there. Yet another seven, this time a six and a one. She does not, however, look in their direction. Her eyes are locked on the camera, on Winter.
”I know your type, Veronica. You’re not special. You’re not different. You’re the same monster with a different mask. Petty, over-opinionated, sadistic, greedy and egotistical. Oh, there’s the capacity for more in you. At one point, we even considered you as being worthy of riding with us.” A few moments are allowed for that to sink in since some might find the admission surprising. ”But that ship has sailed. Invariably you would have tried to rise beyond your station and we Horsewomen do not suffer actions that hinder our mission. The mission...is everything. That’s why this battle means twice the suffering for you. Suffering that you’ll share with young Miss Jones. And there, dear Veronica, is the rub.”
Once again the dice are pushed her way. Once again, she takes them up.
”See, neither of you considered the consequences. I might simply do as Stacy wishes and batter you into submission so that she can choose the battleground for your war at Fate of the Gods. Or Chaos might have other plans for me and offer you an opening for victory.” Accepting but obviously not desirous of such an outcome, Emma shrugs and carries on. ”Or maybe I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life, rendering you incommensurate to further competition for a while, thus denying both you AND Stacy your desired vengeance. Or,” as a few notes of laughter bubble in her throat, behind a predatory smile, ”I might just keep myself backstage and watch you smile and Stacy go slack-jawed, handing you a victory by no-show and handing you the opportunity Stacy so covets and must go through her lover to attain. Cute play in that, by the by. Cliche and predictable, but cute.” The term is delivered more as a minor insult than a compliment, however. Emma rolls the dice between her fingertips, gazing at them in a languid fashion. ”Or...I’ll break Stacy in half personally, ending her chances at revenge and yours to satisfy your bloodlust. Unless, in addition to that, I rip you apart with my bare hands and bring denial not only to you two, but to VoW and its fans a whole. Decisions, decisions.”
Her show of indecision is almost as endearing as it is beautiful. Without context, she’d be a striking figure of a woman in 1920s finery sitting in a ruined casino musing over the fates of others with a mixture of amusement and wickedness. It would be an interesting moment of exposition and little more. Knowing that this is Death Incarnate herself, Emma Carlisle...makes it scary. And somehow even more enticing.
”For good or ill, Stacy has put all the power in my hands. I neither sought nor desired it, but such is life. Whereas Chaos tipped its hand last time to show War the path to ultimate dominance over her sisters, now it places the fates of Stacy Jones and Winter Pine into the hands of she who will witness the beginning and the end of everything that is.” Another toss of the dice brings them up as snake eyes, which makes Emma laugh sharply. ”Couldn’t have put it better myself. Two serpentine eyes, one staring at Stacy, the other at Winter. This is what happens, children, when you don’t think before you act. The Orphan aims for the the heart of The Outcast. The Outcast draws a poisoned blade from it’s boot to bring low The Oprhan. They face one another separated only by air and opportunity, seeing naught else. And in this, they ignore the storm from above, the black clouds and the lightning knifing through air, earth and flesh alike.
Your futures are in my hands. The weapons you would bear against one another I will turn upon you both. Or not. After all, you gambled your fates on a roll of the dice. You set the standard by which you shall be judged. I’m merely following the terms you set. So, let us see your fates, shall we?”
She gathers up the dice one last time as the doorman returns, coming to a stop a few paces from Emma and bowing as he had beyond the doors, in the world of the living. Emma was on the verge of letting them fall as he walked in, and the dice still bounced as he bowed and spoke. The view averted from the table, to encompass only he and Emma.
”It has been one hour, ma’am. If you please?”
He gestures in the direction from which he came. The camera, seeking to turn and see what the roll came up as, is caught by Emma’s gloved hand. Before the dots charred into the bone are made visible, the device is instead refocused on Death.
”No, no...time’s up for now, dear. They’ll just have to learn the outcome of their words and actions come Breakthrough.”
The thought is deliciously humorous to her as she places her hat back on and walks out of the broken-down casino. Through the cracked, dusty glass doors, we can see her re-enter the sedan and it drive off. Turning back, the camera sees no one...only the table and stool, re-covered and hidden from sight.
Fade to black.
