Post by Death Incarnate on Aug 28, 2016 2:57:05 GMT -6
Clear droplets once speeding toward the ground held still like shards of translucent crystal. A night-born predator of the skies with wings spread wide held aloft by invisible hands, aloft without motion. A wordless shriek cut short in the throat of the restrained prophet, grasped by the still hands of cowled forms yet reaching for the likewise-cloaked figure. She, the only object marching unhindered through the unnatural stasis, reaches for the gilded handle of the embedded blade. Black-tipped fingers reach, tentative at first yet with confidence growing, until they may close around the handle. The blade emerges silent and smooth without so much as a scrape, the weight taking a moment for the hooded woman to grow accustomed to.
Yet there is another who moves through the stillness of time and space, her robes of tattered white, dirty and bloodstained. Hair once golden is darkened by dirt and perhaps more, substances best left unspoken. Her gait possesses a stutter, perhaps the remnant of an old injury never quite healed. Yet she sidles up to the sword-bearing figure, mud-caked hands daring to rest upon the black sleeve.
“It is done, then?”
A voice dry, rasping… begging for a taste of water if only to soothe its throat. The cowled woman turns, though only the slight motion of her hood reveals such, and speaks in a far smoother yet similar tone.
“Not quite. Release the spell.”
“...as you wish.”
The tattered young woman snaps her fingers sharply. Once more the rain falls, the night hawk screeches while beating its wings and the scream of the held-back warrior belts out as though never stopped. Wrenching free of his captors, he lunges at the cowled woman and...
...stops.
Red-drenched silver extends through a wound in his back, one which began in front. The woman had simply turned and pointed the weapon, leaving the warrior to end himself of his own impatience. She watches from the shadows of her hood, the thin line of her lips betraying nothing. She wrenches the sword back and lets him fall still and silent to the floor. Another, akin to him in vocation but not in attire or appearance, lays similarly felled though… the means of his disposal are far less refined. A bloody stone lays next a bloody skull.
Naught more needs saying on that matter.
“They await, then? I should not wish to linger any further here than I must,” comes the voice of the sword’s bearer, the end of her sleeve used to wipe the crimson clean of the gleaming edge. “The prize is in my hands and thus the true battle begins.”
“Everything is as you expected,” comes the harsh-yet-beautiful voice of the hooded figure on the corpse’s right, a few tendrils of sapphire peeking from beneath her hood. “The feast awaits.”
“And then… solace. You may not wish it, but you do require it,” says the other, a certain beguiling grace to her simplest gestures. “And have very much earned it.”
Reaching within her robe and drawing out a polished leather scabbard studded and banded with cold steel, the cowled woman slips the blade within, affixing the straps of the case to her waist. Pushing back her hood, hair of a deep, dark red tumbles free, streaked with cerulean, indigo and black. She stares first at her two fellows with icy eyes, then to the dirty young lady clinging to her arm. The others, it would appear, are not aware of the girl’s presence.
“Come, then. Destiny awaits.”
- Excerpt from The Book of the End
Yet there is another who moves through the stillness of time and space, her robes of tattered white, dirty and bloodstained. Hair once golden is darkened by dirt and perhaps more, substances best left unspoken. Her gait possesses a stutter, perhaps the remnant of an old injury never quite healed. Yet she sidles up to the sword-bearing figure, mud-caked hands daring to rest upon the black sleeve.
“It is done, then?”
A voice dry, rasping… begging for a taste of water if only to soothe its throat. The cowled woman turns, though only the slight motion of her hood reveals such, and speaks in a far smoother yet similar tone.
“Not quite. Release the spell.”
“...as you wish.”
The tattered young woman snaps her fingers sharply. Once more the rain falls, the night hawk screeches while beating its wings and the scream of the held-back warrior belts out as though never stopped. Wrenching free of his captors, he lunges at the cowled woman and...
...stops.
Red-drenched silver extends through a wound in his back, one which began in front. The woman had simply turned and pointed the weapon, leaving the warrior to end himself of his own impatience. She watches from the shadows of her hood, the thin line of her lips betraying nothing. She wrenches the sword back and lets him fall still and silent to the floor. Another, akin to him in vocation but not in attire or appearance, lays similarly felled though… the means of his disposal are far less refined. A bloody stone lays next a bloody skull.
Naught more needs saying on that matter.
“They await, then? I should not wish to linger any further here than I must,” comes the voice of the sword’s bearer, the end of her sleeve used to wipe the crimson clean of the gleaming edge. “The prize is in my hands and thus the true battle begins.”
“Everything is as you expected,” comes the harsh-yet-beautiful voice of the hooded figure on the corpse’s right, a few tendrils of sapphire peeking from beneath her hood. “The feast awaits.”
“And then… solace. You may not wish it, but you do require it,” says the other, a certain beguiling grace to her simplest gestures. “And have very much earned it.”
Reaching within her robe and drawing out a polished leather scabbard studded and banded with cold steel, the cowled woman slips the blade within, affixing the straps of the case to her waist. Pushing back her hood, hair of a deep, dark red tumbles free, streaked with cerulean, indigo and black. She stares first at her two fellows with icy eyes, then to the dirty young lady clinging to her arm. The others, it would appear, are not aware of the girl’s presence.
“Come, then. Destiny awaits.”
- Excerpt from The Book of the End
The night was hardly young, still, but the celebration continued with the same gusto as it possessed within its inaugural moments. Most of the young women sitting, standing or striding about were familiar, they being the first five of the Chosen. Ophelia stood above them all with her dark hair and serious expression, though a smile did tug a little at her full lips. Eve and Ellimere leaned against the bar, nursing non-alcoholic drinks and looking generally relaxed as they gazed upon the others. Luca and Pandora were the most animated of the bunch, and not merely due to Luca’s striking figure or bright smile or Pandora’s pink, red and blue hair and studded collar and bracelets. Each had a frilly, fruity drink in hand and were quite animated in their glorying over their reason for being in this place.
There were others… faces not yet matched with names, the odd well-dressed server or management type weaving through the throng to see that all was well at the gathering. In a corner booth one can see Katalina Star sitting with Zahara Matisse, Kate Bass and Jamilyn Cornett. Stacy Jones and Jennifer Lawson were likewise milling about, taking that exact moment to carouse a little with Pandora and Luca. Joanna is moving through the group, looking for all the world as though she wishes to grab the nearest warm body and twist and squeeze and malign until there’s naught but a quivering pile. And for a split-second, she appears ready to do just that. Then she glances over her shoulder, across the room, and meets the eyes of Death.
Standing away from the rest, from those celebrating the ‘ten pounds of gold’ draped over her navy-clad shoulder, Emma Carlisle is seeing only War. Tension is awash through Joanna until she sees those clear eyes gazing… not with direction or ferocity, but admiration. And just like that, Joanna’s posture loosens a hair and her gait becomes far more natural. She picks up a pair of drinks from the bartender, delivered with alacrity upon his noting her approach, and turns on a booted heel to return to Death’s side. Emma, showered and dressed cleanly after the pay-per-view in a dark navy suit with a cobalt-colored silk blouse. The World Visionary Championship rests over her left shoulder, black-tipped fingers wrapped firmly about the leather-mounted medallion. Joanna places one of the drinks into Emma’s right hand and Death’s response is to lean in and kiss her fiancee on the cheek, whispering.
”Just a little longer, love,” the new champion says quietly. ”They’ve waited for this moment as long as we. It is not our standard, this is true, but they deserve their own piece of glory. They have, after all, been with us since the start.”
”“It’s not my impatience that has me like this, Goldie. My mind has not been my own lately, and while I’m happy for them, I think I need to write... lest I become this party’s downer.”
Regarding her lover quietly, Emma’s icy eyes avert for a moment before returning to Joanna.
”As I feel the need to… speak,” Emma replies, the tip of her tongue snaking out to wet her lips a little. ”Already the cries and wails pervert the night air, the deposed looking for rationalization, the scavengers whetting their appetites. While they yet stall,” she pauses for a moment, running her fingers along the contours of the belt’s engraved images, ”I shall strike. This, my love, changes everything.”
About to speak, Joanna stops a moment into the parting of her lips and turns her head just enough to spot the approach of Strife herself. Turning back to Emma, whom she shoots a flat look toward, Emma slightly inclines her chin, then turns to Katalina with a small smile.
”I’d always pictured you in a different manner of leather and gold but,” Katalina says upon coming within conversational distance, looking Emma up and down unabashedly, ”being a champion suits you far better.”
Turning to Joanna, Katalina hesitantly sets a hand on her sister’s arm, giving it a little squeeze.
”No hard feelings, Joanna? I was sharper, more violent, than I should have been. Trying to follow your own example, I suppose. Or looking for a receipt from our handicap match once upon a time,” the domina continues with a shrug, lowering her hand from Joanna’s arm. ”Either way, I want no issues between you and I… or any of us. Especially not now.”
“I’d expected nothing less, though I did think we’d have spent more time working together. C’est la vie, no hard feelings,” Joanna says somewhat halfheartedly, unconcerned with the party around them, though she at the very least accepts Katalina’s gesture. ”Thank you for the invite, but where can a girl clear her head around here?”
Gesturing her lover toward the back door of the bar, where she might step outside for a bit of cool night air, Emma turns to Katalina again, who steps in and embraces her stablemate for a moment, a gesture which Death returns.
”Not in the terms they would scream of, Katalina, but I could not have accomplished this without you or Joanna… or any of those who follow us. It will not be forgotten. You have my gratitude.”
”A pleasure as always, love.”
Returning even as Zahara approaches, Katalina meets her own fiancee part of the way down the floor from Emma and, as with their dinner recently as couples, Death finds herself watching the domina and the magician more closely than is polite. Seeing this over Katalina’s shoulder, Zahara comes to Emma and, like the other woman, briefly embraces Death. Shock of shocks, Emma doesn’t recoil from the gesture though her brief discomfort is apparent for a couple seconds. Zahara says nothing, however. She merely offers a smile afterward and joins Katalina once more as they return to their table.
Left standing alone in the middle of the bar, Emma lets her gaze fall upon the championship over her shoulder. The scent, the weight… the glow of it under the tavern lights… all conspire to bring a determined set to her features. It’s the Death we all know and love, and perhaps fear, who calls to one of her Chosen from a short distance off.
”Luca.”
The blonde turns from the multicolored Pandora, a smile still clinging to her fire engine red lips.
”Yes, ma’am?”
About to launch into a firm instruction, Emma paused. She looked to her and to Pandora, to their smiles and to their enjoyment of the moment. Not so much second-guessing as choosing a different manner of handling her business, Emma softened her tone a note and made her way to their table.
”You have your portable camera with you, do you not?”
”I do, yes,” the young woman says, putting her bag on the table as she rises from her chair, quickly producing the digital device. ”Give me just a moment and I’ll be ready?”
But Death sets a hand on the girl’s shoulder and calmly urges her back into her seat, leaving both Luca and Pandora somewhat confused. Taking the camera from Luca’s hand, Emma shakes her head with a faint curl of her lips.
”No, Luca. Sit. Drink. Enjoy. This,” Emma briefly gestures to the goings-on around her, ”is for all of us. Not merely I. I shall tend to this.”
The girls are unsure of how to respond, giving each other equally quizzical looks. When they turn to respond though, Emma is already on her way out the front door of the bar, camera in the process of being turned on. It takes mere moments for her to get the device activated and recording, using the small screen to make sure she has it centered as she wishes before she begins addressing the VoW Nation.
”Adjust not your eyes for this is no nightmare. Cover not your ears to the truth, only to muffle the wails of the broken and soon-to-be-forgotten. Close your mouths, take a knee and beseech Death for what little time she might spare that you can prepare yourself for the Great Conflict,” Emma begins, having no need to yell or scream, to edge her words nor force them through the senses of those who watch. She turns the camera, just so, so that the World Visionary Championship fills the frame while she continues to speak. ”In his own words, English decreed that VoW would burn were this championship to be taken from him,” she continues, bringing the camera back up and taking from her pocket a wooden match. With a scrape of her nail the phosphorus hisses and bursts into flame, which Emma holds before her eyes. ”Let the inferno begin.”
She drops the match, the rain-soaked concrete below not as conducive to flame as one might think… yet the fire is not given a chance to grow in the first place before the toe of Emma’s boot snuffs it out with a crunch and grind.
”You were obviously mistaken in that, English. The only flame left in your wake was the trail of it you streaked from the ring, the arena and the company in the aftermath. Even now I can still taste you,” Emma says, flashing a decidedly-wicked grin whilst running her tongue over her white teeth, ”something I never have and never will say about another male so long as I walk the Earth.”
To emphasize that point, she spits on the sidewalk… right on the remains of the charred matchstick.
”It is of no consequence to me if you see this or if you come roaring back into the company with a chip on your shoulder and rage in your soul. None of it will change the immutable fact that I did what numerous others failed to do,” the camera moves from the corpse of the match back to Emma’s smooth features, twisted into a cold and impassive mask. ”And that… is end your 325-day-old title reign. The crazy Goth girl who did a lot of talking but could never quite win the big one going all the way back to Girl Power Wrestling. The Chaos-worshipping psychopath who had become a listless shell of herself, falling to opponents she should have dominated. She who was merely tossed into the melee between yourself and Ryder Blade for ‘flavor’ to ‘spice up’ your second go-round at Heatstroke,” she goes on, listing the negative tweets and backstage scuttlebutt meant to degrade her… all the while nursing a growing, toothy smile beneath slivers of shocking blue. ”Vultures would turn their beaks up at what is left of you, English, while unable to even sniff out what’s left of Ryder Blade. I told you, plain as I could speak, that I… would… NEVER... stop. I live up to my name EVERY TIME I step into that ring. Years removed from careers by my methods, brain cells sent screaming into oblivion from my fists and feet. But you? You and your leaderless cohorts floundering in your absence?”
A small shake of the head is given, the smile somehow holding on.
”Your cries of foul play, the aspersions cast upon the nature of my victory… do you truly believe for a hot, hellborn second that they wound me? That I care one whit about the braying of chattel? Let us set the record straight, if for no other reason than to amuse myself as you continue to blow up social media with your suffering and woes,” Emma pauses, the curl of her lips that is usually an anathema to her standard attitude just… holding on for dear life. ”Rayne Draven-Omega inserts herself into the match. Cut off by my Horsewomen, Animal Instinct stick their considerable, magically-pounded noses in as well to raise the odds,” Yes, she smirked. Deal. ”Then the former champion’s karma catches up to him in the form of Brett Carson, who put English out of his Misery… before Death left him with a Kiss to remember.”
Yes, the champion went there, and while the gleam from it remains in her eyes the smile she’d been wearing so strangely melts into a more proper glare… yet one peppered with satisfaction.
”I lose no sleep and my reflection is as beautiful as it ever was… scars, bloodstained lips and all. History is written by the victors, children, and I will spare no detail. As for the record books, they care about naught but the end result. Not of the sneak attacks, the weapons, the ringside brawling or the end of a malignant era due to one man’s turn to reason. All they care about is this,” she holds up the championship with more pride than she had ever shown in her lifetime, ”and this,” then gestures to herself, taking a short bow as the shadows briefly conceal her face save for another flash of her dangerous smile. ”Welcome to a brand new Chaos.”
Turning herself toward the bar, Emma works to turn off the camera as she re-enters, her appearance getting some hoots from those present who, in the meantime, had seen about inebriating themselves a bit more. Laughing softly, Emma’s voice is heard for a moment before the feed cuts out…
”From the sound of you lot, I can only hope there’s a little left behind the counter for the champion!”
And, for a single moment, perhaps two… we can believe that beneath it all, Emma is a person. Just like the rest of us.
~*~
It had been a while, at least a fortnight or two, since Emma had been to the Compound for longer than an hour-long session with Dr. Shields or a brief check-up on her new business venture. The halls were considerably more busy and similarly the ambient noise was ratcheted up. As Death made her way down the main hall, turning left at the intersection, she could see through the reinforced window Ophelia working with a dozen or so men and women ranging in age from 20 to 30. The lot of them were clad in workout gear, much of it darkened by sweat as they pounded sharply, viciously, on hanging heavy bags. Ophelia passed between the rows, snapping off instructions and correcting postures, sometimes delivering her commands in a couple different languages. Emma paused briefly to watch this, an expression denoting her being impressed with what she was watching appearing.
But there was no time to dawdle, as a quick glance to her watch showed. Continuing down the hall, Death made another right and soon came to a door with a brass nameplate, “Dr. Opeare Shields” etched into it. She stands before that door for a few moments when a familiar voice sounds from out of sight. The view shifts and the ragged young woman is there, leaning against the wall to the left of the door, bruised arms folded beneath her chest.
”...you came,” comes the girl’s voice, rasping though not as powerfully as before. She coughs, covering it with one dirty hand. ”He will no doubt be surprised.”
”And what of you?”
The light-haired girl scoffs and pushes off from the wall. She stands side by side with Emma, close enough that a sidelong view would mask one or the other depending, though our view shows both.
”I don’t care.”
”Liar.”
”Call me what you want,” the girl says with a huff, failing at keeping the tremor out of her voice. ”I can read the writing on the wall. I’m not stupid. This ended the moment you got what you wanted.”
Left at a bit of a loss surprisingly, Emma draws in her unpainted lower lip slightly as the door to the office opens and Opeare Shields stands there, looking surprised to see Emma waiting. He glances down the hall one way, then the other, before centering on Death.
”Could have sworn I heard more than one voice. Mmm,” he shrugs slightly then stands aside, gesturing Emma into the office. ”Please, Ms. Carlisle.”
Entering in silence, Emma walks over to the sofa and armchair set in the room’s far corner, lowering herself onto the former which causes the leather to creak. Her corset-styled vest top holds well to her torso, the denim and leather boots below giving her a far more neutral look that is only partially offset by the platinum chain around her neck with a sapphire-bedecked skull charm that rests nicely against her pale skin. Opeare gave her more than a cursory look, perhaps even taking a moment to admire, but if Emma were aware of his gaze she gave no indicator.
No, her eyes were locked on his desk and on the old doll sitting at the edge of it. Her eyes avert from it to the door, then back again, a twitch coming to her lips. Dr. Shields, noting this, walks over to the doll and picks it up. Immediately Emma tenses up considerably and her jaw sets as she stares at both doctor and toy hotly. Thinking better of holding on to the worn effigy any longer, Opeare offers it to Emma who takes it from his hand swiftly, setting it on the center cushion of the couch, next to her.
”One of your Chosen said they found it at the bar the lot of you visited after Heatstroke,” Opeare says with some hesitation, leaning against the edge of his desk, ”but it was Melchior who brought it to me. No, I do not know how he came across it.”
The very question Emma might have posed. The raising of the doctor’s hand quiets her before she can put voice to the query, though, and instead she stares at the doll for a moment. Getting nothing verbal just yet, Opeare sets up the tape recorder and puts it on his desk to take in the conversation.
”So… it has been a week since our last session…”
”That is the standard amount of time between, Doctor.”
Emma responds calmly, draping an arm along the back of the couch and leaning slightly. Her attention goes to the doll for a moment but returns to Shields when he continues.
”Ehm… yes. Well, more properly, it feels like longer with the massive changes surrounding you, Emma,” a name which, at one point, he’d have been glared into submission for calling her by. How time changes. ”You are the new World Visionary Champion, 3S is taking in new contracts at a steady pace and… you have made a lot of personal progress. However, there is still concern.”
”I think I can guess,” Death responds, sounding almost bored. ”I’ll tell you the same thing I told her…”
”That is not what I am referring to,” Shields replies with some hesitance. He turns to his office’s side room door and calls out. ”Mr. Melchior… you can come in now.”
Melchior. At the sound of the name Emma rises swiftly from the couch, her hands clenched into tight fists. Through the door walks the same bookish fellow whose presence had nearly sent Emma into a rage during her last visit. Adjusting his wire-framed glasses neatly on his face, wearing a Polo shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, he approached Opeare’s desk but ventured no closer. Emma watched him like a hawk, more so as he drew his left arm from behind his back and produced a familiar stuffed penguin.
Every tendon, every nerve… they were primed for Emma to lunge forward as she had intended the first time. Especially when she laid eyes on one of her most treasured possessions in the hands of another. Melchior places his namesake on the desk and, sitting at the corner, folds his hands on top of his leg.
”There’s a reason that I’m here, Em-” he pauses, looking at the woman before him in a curious way… the look of someone who’s seeing something either they did not wish to or did not expect. ”I’m sorry, would you mind if I called you by your given name? The other feels like reinforcing a wrong.”
”If the idea makes you uncomfortable, you have a right to say no.”
That’s quite a question as far as Emma is concerned. She looks between the doctor and her former enemy, her expression betraying a high level of consternation. Over her shoulder she then glances, to the doll, which naturally takes up the men’s focus for a moment as well. Turning back to Melchior, Emma inclines her chin ever so slightly.
”Thank you. Now, as I was saying, there’s a reason that I’m here, Victoria.”
Death flinches and Melchior looks to Dr. Shields for a second before continuing.
”And that is because I’m the only one left who knows what is lost to you. That year of darkness that you’ve never been able to penetrate,” removing his glasses, Melchior calmly polishes the lenses with a tissue taken from the box on Opeare’s desk. ”But there’s a price to such knowledge. You’re a smart woman, so I think you already know what I’m referring to. And if not, the good doctor will be happy to illuminate.”
”The price is a dangerous one. If we manage to unlock this mental black box of yours, there will not be any closing it again. You will have to deal with whatever is inside with no knowledge as to what is within. You are left with a calculated risk,” he holds up a hand as if to still a reply before it happens. ”We are not awaiting an immediate answer. We want you to think about it. You just accomplished something amazing by becoming the World Visionary Champion while at the same time finding a sort of peace in and about yourself. Some might say you are starting a new life as it were. Those are important milestones and things you should be proud of.”
”Don’t patronize me, doctor. Champion, yes. Successful businesswoman, yes. But the rest is just pretty words,” Emma sits back down, almost flounces down really, but is careful enough to make sure the doll doesn’t fall over. ”I am making the most of what is available to me. The fight has barely begun.”
The two men exchange looks for a moment, then Shields returns to gazing at Emma.
”The point is we are trying to make is that what you have achieved may not be worth the risk. We want you to consider the idea before making a decision.”
Reaching over to take the doll into her arms, Emma sets it on her lap and stares at it at arm’s length, mulling quietly. Melchior breaks the silence.
”My work currently takes me back and forth from 3S to Essex Pharmaceuticals as Eleanor requies. But I am always capable of being contacted. If and when you decide, merely let me know.
Rising from the desk and sliding his glasses back on in the same motion, Melchior walks over to Emma and briefly sets a hand on her shoulder. She tenses heavily at this but doesn’t shrug his hand off or lash out.
”It’s good to see that they couldn’t take everything that you were away, Victoria,” Melchior says gently. ”Finding yourself again would be the greatest revenge.”
The word revenge makes Emma lift her icy eyes toward Melchior as though expecting further explanation, but the man has apparently said his piece. WIth a nod to Dr. Shields he turns and leaves the office. Emma sits in silence for a few moments before the doctor cuts in.
”Unless there ismore you would like to discuss…”
”No. It would seem now is the time for thinking, not talking.”
Rising, taking the doll with her, Emma starts to leave… then turns to stare at the stuffed penguin on the desk. Opeare watches as well as Emma reaches out, hesitates, then turns to leave the room without the stuffed animal. Closing the door behind her she leans against it, the doll loosely gripped in her hand. Pushing away, she turns to face down the hallway, her arms lifting to wrap around herself as the rasping voice she’d left outside pipes up.
”Said your good-byes, then? There’s no sense in dragging this out.”
”Who says you’re going anywhere?”
”It’s cruel to tease me, Emma,” the girl says, the faintest bit of sadness in her voice. Sadness replaced by surprise in moments. ”...what are you doing?!”
”It wasn’t until you showed up again that this happened, you know. I may be a monster, Victoria,” Emma says quietly, faintly chuckling to herself in the momentary pause, ”but I recognize your worth and the place you’ve earned. I will not send you away. Ever.”
The view pans around a bit, showing Emma not to be clutching herself but the girl, Victoria, close to her chest. At first the young woman presses back against Emma’s stronger grip but as the moments pass she not only finds less strength to do so but less drive. Soon her arms are around Emma as well.
”You’re not a monster. We… we’re a monster.”
”We are not what they made us. What we truly are is a mystery. Maybe one day we’ll unlock that mystery.”
”Not yet, though, right?”
”No… not yet.”
And the scene cuts to black.
~*~
It could not have fallen before sunset the previous night if it were even that long. The nature of its destruction left a broad patch of charred, ruined earth surrounding the remnants, scattered stones and broken beams both lonely and piled. Morning dew encrusted every surface, slowly choking off the last of the smoulder hidden within the cracks of the once beautiful edifice. But nature, its fauna and flora, they recall the battle so recently waged here and are silent, paying last respects to what was before settling to dream over what may be. All is quiet.
All, save for the crash of the hammer, of iron upon iron. Rhythmic, quieting for short spells before picking up the pace again at seemingly-plotted intervals. For a time this is the only ambience before hoofbeats are heard, pounding against the soft earth. A cloaked figure on the pale steed’s back, the morning breeze tossing her cloak to and fro, moves into the perimeter of destruction and dismounts at the shattered archway into the ruins of the tower. From behind her the view is perfect, wide enough that we can make the small, domed building of stone and mortar, smoke billowing from the roof pipe. From here the clanking continues whilst another, darker horse paws the ground impatiently outside.
Within the crumbling skeleton of the building the hooded woman moves, evading piles of rubble and skirting ruined walkways until she reaches what was once the main hall. Evidence lies here… evidence of how quickly the end came. Few escaped the fall, most who attempted were crushed as the roof came down on them when fire-weakened rafters floors above snapped, bringing their false sky down. But the woman pays them no heed. Creaking leather and scraping metal sound at her every step until she comes to the remnants of the throne. The view comes around as she pushes back her hood, staring at the clutching hand which is all that remains of he who once ruled.
”Here lies the King of the Orphans,” she begins, the unfettered breeze passing through the cracks tossing the strands not trapped in her braid about. ”The prophet of his own demise. When I fall, so shall the kingdom topple with me. Hmph… being crushed by one’s own words. Tragic.”
Yet she hardly sounds as though she would shed a tear for Casanova English. Instead, Death sounds very much amused. Kneeling, she plucks from the floor the gilded, charred crown that the former champion must have been reaching for at the end.
”His last thoughts were not of his people, for this was his only charge,” she muses, using the sleeve of her tunic to rub some of the soot from the gold. ”His headsman and his huntress came forth at the end, looking to bolster the efforts of his hot-headed concubine but their efforts proved fruitless. Here lies what remains of the Messiah. May the earth claim his remnants.”
She rises to her feet and puts the crown on her own head. It fits… surprisingly well given their differences in size. Another pause in the clanging of the smith’s hammer and, in the distance, the plaintive howl of a wolf. Emma turns in that direction, a faint smirk manifesting.
”Claiming the crown, to some, heralds the end of the battle. The spoils are split among those loyal and living, tangible gratitude given for their efforts. Such thinking has been the doom of many a champion of the past, righteous and foul alike. You, Winter, the Huntress of the Orphans, the predator of predators, should know this well,’ turning, she looks right at us, her expression setting sharply. ”The battle for the heart and soul of this Visionary Nation is barely begun. I have merely… redrawn the lines, redefined the terms. Your pack has lost its alpha, your headsman’s axe is showing its cracks and your former leader’s most trusted retainer saw the error of his ways in violent fashion. I hardly think the addition of the bed-warmer to your ranks will make an iota of difference, but… one must work with what they are given. Not that this is about them, Huntress. No,” Emma says with a thin smile, her eyes aglow unnaturally with eagerness. ”this is about you and I.”
A threatening creak sounds from over her head and Emma calmly walks toward the archway, not seconds before another of the charred beams snaps and falls, covering most of the area she’d just been standing in stone and mortar. She hardly pays it any mind other than to slightly adjust her golden prize as she comes through the walkway and back out into the morning air. The sky steadily lightens in the distance as she soaks in a deep breath of cool, pure air.
”What are you after, Winter? Vengeance? Revenge? A sense of your place in this frightening new world? You’ve reason for each,” Emma continues, once more with the musing tone. ”We’ve clashed before and it did not end in your favor. In the midst of a war for the soul of another, your intended victim sought to make me a pawn, thus allowing the knight to felled by what most would consider a sacrifice with neither face nor name,” she speaks almost fondly of that moment before switching tacks. ”Will it be revenge, then? Hateful, lustful, violent revenge? The kind which sends my beautiful war into bloody, passionate tailspins of wrath? It would be justified,” she pauses upon reaching her horse, stroking the creature’s muzzle with a gloved hand. ”After all, the Orphanage shall never be the same again. They will be neither feared nor revered. They are the past. A wise warrior would shed the name and change paths before the sins of the past drag them into the dirt. Are you that warrior, Winter? Will you treat this battle between us as what it is meant to be, that being a chance for you to learn your place in the new Chaos?”
Her gaze is of a questioning nature… yet challenging as well. The wolf howls once more in the distance, followed by further baying from the remnants of the pack. Emma’s eyes close and she soaks in the sound, seeming quite enraptured by it. Her eyes snap open, however, as the door to the smith’s forge opens and a soot-marked, sweating Joanna Thade walks out. Sleeveless roughspun tunic and breeches, leather boots and gloves, her well-worn smith’s apron… she looked a sight. So much soot and smoke in that building that her typically-blue hair was nearly black from its settling. She carried a long object, wrapped in black velvet, that she proffered from a kneel as Emma walked forth to meet her.
”It is done,” War breathed, looking up at Emma with predatory eyes. ”Augmented, honed… forged for your hand and none other.”
Taking the object from her hands, Emma draws the velvet away and gazes upon the blade, one that certainly had a place in her story. The gilded hilt, the leather-laced handle, the double-edged blade with a perfectly-centered blood groove… all just as she herself imagined it. Sliding it back into its case, Emma hooks the weapon to her belt and steps in, taking Joanna’s hand to raise her up. Moments later Death’s lips taste those of War, their respective states of cleanliness and grime hardly a concern. Separating, Emma nods toward a stream past the forge.
”Go and prepare. Our legion arrives ere long.”
Joanna is off in a rush and Emma’s attention turns back to the camera.
”Recently you professed a modicum of respect for me, leading to a rare moment of my being taken aback. Such happens more than it ought to lately,” a thought that seems to trouble Death for a split-second. ”And the more I consider your sentiment, the more I recall a quote of some renown in my life: always sweeten a lie with a little bit of truth. You will forgive my lack of inclination to fully accept your professing of respect… or you won’t,” she pauses, her tone indicating that whether Winter did or not would be acceptable either way. ”I am a calculating creature after all. When considering the source and said source’s actions over the past year, most certainly including her propensity for and prowess at mind games? It behooves a woman in my position to be wary. It bears repeating: this,” she gestures sharply to the crown atop her head. ”changes everything. You are going to learn, Winter, and learn swiftly, that my methods and those of the late Casanova English are very different.”
And there comes the cold visage Death so often affects: the narrowed eyes, the set jaw, the thinning of her lips into a pale, set line.
”English’s complacency caught up to him, as did his lack of effort to maintain his dominance. Perhaps he knew the end was coming, perhaps the weight of power and gold was too much for him to carry any longer, but regardless of the reason, he has become the past,” Emma states this with finality, her tone daring argument. ”I will not slacken my pace nor will I stay my wrath. English’s methods doomed him... something you were witness to, Winter. The title that I now possess is coveted by every person in this Nation. They may avert their eyes when I pass but as soon as I give them my back, their hungry gaze lingers on the symbol of my dominance. They would see me sent spiraling from the top of the mountain and shattered on the stones below.
Those expecting that such will be an easy task are fools. You, Winter, whether you like it or not, are part of that ilk. The gold will not be on the line but your gaze will lay, if only for a moment, upon my title. That twisting hunger deep in your gut will creep up, making your mouth water and widening your eyes. And I will see this,” the words are delivered with no small amount of warning, Emma’s features tightening a little further. ”At that moment you will cease to be a mere opponent. For daring to dream, for imaginging the weight and scent of the gold and leather resting on your shoulder, for entertaining the fantasy of being champion… I will beat you to within an inch of your life. You will become a threat and for that you will suffer. For a moment’s hubris on the level of defiance against gods old or new. Do you doubt this?”
Rolling her head around in a circle, eliciting a few pops from her neck, the corner of Emma’s lips turn up in a demonic sneer.
”Dredge up the ghost of the Messiah and ask him what I do to threats. Ask Heath Williams, Ryder Blade, Constance Chapin… or, by all means, dig deeper into Death’s ledger and ask people like Veronica Valiant or Sophie Kaiser. If you can find them.”
She turns again after a breath, not at the calls of the wolves but the low rumbling murmur of many a voice wafting over many more hoofbeats. Faintly a smile appears, then it is gone in a blink and Emma is once again staring into the camera.
"The title was once a key, the means to unlocking a door through which the beginning of a new era could be found. Once the gold lay in my hands I kicked that door down. What the powers-that-be within the VoW Nation feared the most has now been made manifest. The catalyst is out of their hands. Their chosen guardians of the status quo are laid low. This Nation… is mine now,” Emma relates without bothering to obscure the pride she feels in being able to make such a statement. ”English they could control. Death will be neither shackled nor cowed. English had a pack of followers at his beck and call, yourself included. Death has warriors who ride side-by-side with her into the thickest of battles. It is a stark difference you would do well to note.
Winter, you're the former underling of a broken beast clinging to what little notoriety you possess now that you drift alone in a sea of sharks and nightmarish creatures. Robinson, the mighty headsman, can't help you. He can't even get past a beaten magician. Rayne Draven-Omega? I discarded her like the trash she is when she dared cross me,” no small amount of satisfaction is notable in Emma’s tone pertaining to that little comment! ”Now it's the beta of a pack of ragtag outcasts versus the End of All Things. I will not deny your skill at delving into an adversary’s mind and warping them from within, nor will I deny you acknowledgement of your physical prowess. Both were proven versus Stacy Jones. But those attributes have limits, Huntress. And I know who my thirty pieces of silver is on."
Joanna’s return provides a brief distraction, the Horsewoman of War having shrugged into her crimson plate before plunging the maul of Hephty hard against the soft grass and soil beneath her feet. Emma appraises her with a satisfied eye, nodding with a small grin. The horned, scarred helmet tugged down over Joanna’s features no doubt hides a lovingly malicious smile as she heaves her hammer up and props it on her shoulder, nodding in Death’s direction.
”See to the path ahead, my love. Strife’s arrival is imminent. When she arrives, we move.”
Nodding as her only response, Joanna climbs into her impatient destrier’s saddle, urging it into motion. Galloping down the half-charred causeway toward the forest ahead, Emma looks after her briefly, returning to the task of addressing Winter.
”Your greatest enemy, she who you hounded like the Huntress I name you as, filling her every waking and sleeping hour with nightmares tangible and otherwise,” pausing for effect, Death continues with a heavy if dramatic sigh, ”lives. She walks and breathes, smiles and loves… and fights harder than she ever has. Despite all the violence you visited upon her, tearing her apart in the same manner as I did to Blade and English, the Glampire perseveres. Her joys are compounded and her drive is nearly unmatched. What, then, was the worth of your obsession? From whence did you draw power and satisfaction seeing that not only does she flourish in the wake of your efforts, but that she has her younglings once more?
Victory over Death might change everything, including a welcome obfuscation of your failure to end the mighty Stacy Jones, but be honest with yourself: how likely do you believe that is? At less than my peak, with my desires capable of being accomplished via a little bloody fun, I sent you down in defeat. Since then, the efforts of my ascension have become more obvious by the day,” she says, tapping the crown at her brow. ”Again, respect where it is due, realism where it is warranted. You will fall, Winter, like so many others before you. You may very well draw blood and mark my flesh for a time, but victory is measured in more than pain.”
The galloping in the distance becomes louder, reaching a crescendo before grinding to a halt at Emma’s back. She turns, seeing Strife upon her steed of amber brown, her sapphire and emerald cuirass glistening in the morning sun. Unlike War, she does not hide her features behind gilded steel but under a silver-banded silk coif. Strife’s mailed fist is put across her chest in a form of salute, which Emma returns in kind before beckoning her horse over.
At the back of Strife… near a thousand of the mud-caked and forlorn, the lower peoples… the -backbone of any prospering nation. Their mail and boiled leather is ill-fitting, their weapons honed yet old with many being little other than modified farm implements. But the true steel and iron are in their eyes and their posture. Downtrodden, untrained… yet driven to fight for what is theirs by right. Emma looks over this mass, men and women alike, and affects an expression of calm satisfaction.
Her attention returns to the camera and Winter Pine.
”You were warned that conflict was coming from the get. You, Winter, and everyone else. For near a year we were doubted, chastised, maligned… written off as jokes who spoke too proudly to justify the outcomes of our battles. Listen,” Emma says before a moment’s silence, ”as naught but silence emits from the mouths who denigrated us before. There is wisdom in that silence, wisdom for all who would oppose me. With hands that tore gold from the clutches of the once-chosen, now-desposed leader of this Nation…
...I shall teach you.”
Turning on her heel, Emma gracefully steps up and into the saddle of Charon, her favored steed. Wheeling him around, she points him toward the forest from which Joanna is riding back. She takes her place at the side of Death while Strife rides up to the champion’s right. Drawing the forged blade from her hip, Emma points to the woods as another array of howls shoots up into the morning air, the pace of the lightening sky increasing by degrees.
”We ride!”
The Horsewomen and their army of upstarts charge… down the path, the ruin left as a reminder in their wake as they charge the treeline, the scene going to black.
