Melrakki Kynligrland
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Melrakki Kynligrland: he more commonly goes by "Fox", "White Fox", or "Rakki" for his name is indeed a bit strange. Despite its ethnic origins, he is not from the Iceland. He is from somewhere in Scandanavia, possibly Norway. He has a very rough accent that sounds vaguely of a combination of Irish and Norwegian that makes his voice sound harsh. Melrakki does at least. He's a typical loner, aloof and solitary, and prefers not to speak to others. He avoids human contact at all costs, though the need to purchase supplies and take shelter from bad weather forces him into contact. He doesn't necessarily avoid them because he wants to be alone. He doesn't want much of anything after all. He does it to keep them safe, and to keep himself from harm. It's not a choice, it's an instinct. When he is near people, he hides behind himself. He hides behind Melrakki. He lets Melrakki do the talking, the smiling, the walking. He lets Melrakki fake his way through the world, because that is what Melrakki does best. That is what Melrakki is for. But Melrakki is not the perfect person in people's skin. When he walks about, people stare at him, because he's different. He does something different. They stare and say, "Who is that boy walking with his eyes shut?" They stare and talk and Melrakki hates their staring, so Melrakki too hides and stays away. Away from people. To keep his heart safe. He's dark then. Dark and quiet. He's your "tall, dark, and silent" package tied off with a black bow. Ah, but despite whatever "tall, dark, and silent" demeanor he might possess, one thing offsets that sort of stereotype: he's terribly clumsy. Always running into things and tripping. Always. No one really knows what to make of him. Cool, confident, dark, mysterious, and clumsy? That's another thing. Darkness. Melrakki is scared of the dark. No. Not scared. Paranoid, petrified by it, terrified, horrified. The kind of fear that makes him scream and cry and claw at the walls. He turns from being the oppressor to the opressed. He turns from predator to prey. From untouchable to vulnerable. His hard exterior is hard to shatter unless he is in darkness. Why? Why is he so afraid of the dark? Most connect it to his past. What a travesty. Taking a gentle giant and sending him to his knees. Melrakki looks young and frail, and many call him boy because of it. Boy this and boy that. They talk about him like an ignorant child who cannot think for himself. He's seventeen. He can handle his own. He has faced more darkness than he can really remember. Not the kind of darkness that comes from the shadows of night, but the darkness that will eat you alive. Before there was the Demon Tide and Dream Catcher Village, there was another place. A whole different city. A great one. Soltalento. The rich, the poor, the wicked and the remorse; all lived and thrived and died within those streets and constructs of steel and stone. He was there. Reborn there. Redifined. Reinvented. Reborn. In some northern country of Scandinavia, a child was born. A little boy with black hair and ocean blue eyes. The moment he drew his first breath with his new lungs, he was whisked away to Soltalento. Not even a moment old and his fate had already been sealed. To Soltalento the child went, smuggled inside the walls to the secret facility below. Where men and women in white and black tore him apart. Heart, soul, body and mind: all ruined and raw, laid bare before them to do as they pleased. When they became satisfied with the results, when enough had been done to him, he was hardly human anymore. No. He wasn't human. Not at all. And then they told him to become Melrakki, and tossed him into the unforgiving world. He was alone now. Nine years old with no idea of his purpose or what had happened to him or what he was meant to do. He was different. He knew that. If the terror of night and the vague feelings of self loathing and self inflicted pain weren't enough, he couldn't even speak the language. Who am I? He asked that more than once. All he had as a name, a name he clung to for dear life. It was his only solace in this frightening world. This world he had never seen before yet knew so well. He found the cause of his difference. An ability. When Melrakki discovered his powers, he was helpless. Intriguing. Most people who discover their abilities become powerful, feared, and dominant. But not Melrakki. Melrakki became a helpless little child who was afraid of everything and everyone. Being lost and alone, no place to call home, he wandered. He never left the city limits, but he wandered up and down them for months. When he was quite near the end with no hope in sight, he was rescued. Rescued by people of a secret facility that cared for those with powers. On the lookout for gifted children, they had originally thought Melrakki was some mere orphan, but it became clear he was indeed different from ordinary children. They took him to their facility. Helped him. Revived him. And that is where he found life. He learned how to survive, how to use his abilities. He served the people who cared for them, happily. But there was always this nagging feeling. Like he was being watched. Not by the security cameras or any of the staff or children but by someone... something else. Something inside him and all around him. So he stared back. He searched for this something, curious as to what it was. It would be many years before he would find the answer. Between the time of confusion and revelation, he did all sorts of things. The facility was intent on using their children. Melrakki and the others would search for others who were gifted, fight the ones who were intent on destroying the city, and save those who could not save themselves. And then there were things Melrakki did that he was not aware of doing. He would wake up in the middle of the night from strange dreams. Vague images of running, screaming, a streak of blood, death mist clouding over a stranger's eyes. He was always tired, hurt in places he didn't remember being injured in, bleeding from scratches he had never received, and thinking or remembering things he never did or would bother thinking about. And then knowing people he had never really gotten to meet before. Sitting next to a boy with dark brown hair and gray eyes and they would converse as if they were brothers, then always leaving wondering who that kid was. Often disoriented, he threw himself into his training and service with the facility, intent on not falling behind. This drained him more and more, taking small tolls on him. Several times he would fall asleep during patrols, catching naps on the train or car if they were going places. People began to take notice, but said nothing. They believed him merely suffering from some sleeping disorder. And all the while, that something else that constantly watched Melrakki, smiled and said: "Ignorant fools." Then one day, all Melrakki's questions were answered. When a voice spoke into his mind: "Hush, hush, Gemini, and awake!" Gemini? Who could Gemini be? Then it all came flooding in on him. All the things he ever did. All the horrors he suffered silently. Melrakki was the actor. And the real him, the one called Gemini was waking up. And Gemini answered that voice. Gemini answered and he obeyed. The twelve. The Zodyak. They awoke. And they answered their masters' calls. They annihilated everyone within in the facility. And once they were dead, they swarmed the town. It didn't take long. It didn't take much. Soltalento wasn't built in a day. But in a day, it silently fell. Then the children turned on their masters. The order had backfired. They searched and destroyed their masters and the manipulators. Crawled the earth and scoured the heavens. Kill. Kill them all. They did it. The accomplished. Their masters and manipulators dead, the twelve had nothing left. No guide. No master. No great puppetteer. They pressed their weapons to their heads and wiped themselves from the earth. The city was painted in red and they joined the blood stained canvas together, their bodies lost among the carnage. Save one. Gemini. That precious voice of his Master was not lost to the ruin. His Master had escaped all carnage, and Master ordered Gemini to live. So Gemini was led far from the slaughter, on new paths and roads. Far, far from the ruin of Soltalento. When he was far enough, he reverted to Melrakki. Acting and pleasant and a perfect little actor. Melrakki is different now. Melrakki knows all, his thoughts no longer completely under control, since there's only a few manipulators about that can alter his memory, having escaped with Master. So Melrakki knows. He knows everything. And Melrakki stays away from people. Melrakki doesn't stay anywhere long. After witnessing the aftermath of the Soltalento massacre, deemed the "Bloody Roanoke' by the media, he knows how dangerous Gemini is. How dangerous he can become when he is his true self. So to keep up his act, he becomes the loner. The solitary one. The one who can't walk without tripping nevertheless wipe out a city. He and Master have never met. Gemini and Melrakki both. He sees the manipulators though. When they want him to do something for them, or in emergency cases, they may reveal themselves. He is Melrakki now, as he wanders the ruins of the Demon Tide. Melrakki, not Gemini. Please not Gemini. When he is Gemini, he is their puppet. He does whatever they say. He has no inhibitions, nothing to hold him back from whatever dastardly devices they want to use him for. When he is Melrakki, he is the perfect actor. A monster in sheep's clothing. Able to blend in with people and convince them he is just a normal human too. With the manipulators constantly blocking and unblocking certain memories, Melrakki's cover is more effective. He is just a pawn on their chessboard. A valuable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. What he is, no one really knows. Was he ever human? Which side is real? Gemini or Melrakki? Which one is the original? That's the mystery, isn't it. Melrakki is all about mystery. He won't hurt people, doesn't hurt people, without necessary provocation. Melrakki doesn't at least. Don't provoke him. He hates to fight. Be gentle with him. And never turn out the lights.
AFTERTHOUGHT: One of my favorite characters. Inspired heavily by the anime Phantom: Requiem for the Phantom. He didn't do much on Cryptic Truth except freak out some people. Twice.
AFTERTHOUGHT: One of my favorite characters. Inspired heavily by the anime Phantom: Requiem for the Phantom. He didn't do much on Cryptic Truth except freak out some people. Twice.
Aro Septimus Nox
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Aro Septimus Nox is a cursed boy. Ever since he had the capability to remember, his world has been a tormented one, full of pain, hatred, and death. He is a most unique creature, but it is his uniqueness that makes him the walking form of death itself: he is a Dementor. Dementors have existed for thousands of years, but perhaps it is the famous fiction books Harry Potter that have made them so popular. Those sorts of Dementors are the more recognizable: the tattered robes, the scarred faces, the clawing hands, the black ephemeral smoke. But those hideous, grotesque beings are not all that Dementors are. Those types of Dementors were once more beautiful. Aro is still in his usual beautiful form, which allows him to pass by most people undetected as it has all the appearances of human. As a Dementor, he feeds off of people's good emotions, ones like happiness, love, and peace. He enters a room full of happy, cheerful people, and when he leaves it, everyone has turned cold and full of misery. No human can hope to stand against his nature. It is an insatiable thirst to make others suffer that he too might feel their happiness. With his taking of their good emotions, he forces them to relive their most painful memories, over and over again. Many times he tried to save the people he was unintentionally torturing, and many times they begged him to just let them die. Unlike the other Dementors, he does not feel their greed or their joy at causing suffering. His powers are completely out of his control. As they are out of his control, everyone he comes near is instantly in grave danger. Any sort of contact with other beings is delicate and almost unattainable. He resents his powers and the curse they bear: the curse of utter loneliness and rejection by all of society. It was the duty of his parents to teach him how to control his powers, but he never had the chance to be taught. Aro has no idea of his family's whereabouts. He knows they're alive and out there, but they don't pay too much attention to him. He had been abandoned at birth. His parents had to flee for their lives and they left him behind. After so many years of being alone, he had gotten too used to not having a family. He was reunited with his parents when he was fourteen. By then, neither the parents nor the child recognized each other. As soon as the parents discovered how violently dangerous Aro was, they politely told him they didn't want him to travel with them. Aro shrugged it off as though he didn't care, but that day changed him forever. It is what initially fueled him to seek help and a way to end his spontaneous killings. At the mercy his uncontrollable powers, he has paid heavy prices, especially concerning the Kiss of Death, also known as the Dementor's Kiss. A kiss with which the very soul of the person is taken away. With those infernal, twisted Dementors, it leaves a person as an empty shell, but with the full embodied, human formed Dementors, it kills their target and traps the soul inside them. Aro has killed more people with the Dementor's Kiss than he can remember. He cannot stifle all the souls that writhe and shriek inside him. They claw for control of his body, seeking to make him their new vessel, and he fights them constantly. It's a battle of wills he has to win. Sometimes it is not a battle. Sometimes the souls play with him, curse him, let him know just how much they despise him. A mental torture he has no choice but to endure. Or they forgive him. These souls are rare and have such sweet, gentle compassions that it hurts him to have them inside, though he craves their affections the most. Either way, some people may chance upon him seemingly talking to himself. Because of his powers and talking to the voices in his head, he made himself into a complete loner. And from this constant loneliness, over time, he has begun to lose his empathy, making him a very scary enemy. But he is forcing himself to change. He seeks help and a way to control his powers, even if it means taking drastic measures. These forced changes and the fact he is battling the loss of his empathy have made him a very unpredictable creature. He is constantly changing his morals and his views. Aro is never what he seems to be, and his moods swing back and forth like mad pendulums so often it can be very hard to keep up with each one. One thing to be agreed on is he usually has a very short temper. When you're on his good side, you're on the best side you can possibly be on, but don't get too comfortable. Because of his lowered sense of empathy, his powers are even more of something to be feared, for now he will hurt you intentionally and not just sporadically. And when a Dementor is as specific as that, they are a force you do not want to mess with. Aro is a lean built fighting machine with hardened muscle and a strong frame. He seems to be a seventeen or eighteen year old young man, though his true age is hard to discern as Dementors are practically ageless. Un-living as they call themselves. They were never living or dead. They are un-living, and un-living things are timeless. His skin is devoid of blemish, all the noticeable parts at least. He has a fair slashing of scars about his torso, back, legs, and arms, usually covered with long sleeves and black pants. His hair is soft, spiky and straight; red at the top that turns to white and fades between silver to black at the ends. His eyes are a vibrant, constantly glowing blue color, attributed to the hundreds of souls gathered inside. For eyes are windows to the soul after all, and he has plenty of them.
AFTERTHOUGHT: Yah, the guy from Mercury Boarding School. He's still a favorite of mine. Never actually rped him on Cryptic Truth.
AFTERTHOUGHT: Yah, the guy from Mercury Boarding School. He's still a favorite of mine. Never actually rped him on Cryptic Truth.
Logan Avdimi Shield
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Small. Fragile. A young mind deformed by the atrocity this world unleashed in the form of hell spawn. Such a life should not be tainted as such. Only standing on this Earth for eight years, Logan Avdimi Shield is one of the Demon Tide's undeserving victims. For so long he has believed everything to be nothing more than a bad dream, and that is the only way he is able to cope. When the demons first began to wreck havoc unabashed, a concentrated force of them cam right to Logan's unsuspecting hometown and began to savage everything in sight that dared to draw breath. The boy could only watch as the survivors were picked off one by one. And then they came for him. They came for him and he begged unseen forces to save him. But nothing could save him but himself. He did. At a single touch, he reached to the demons swarming around him, and when their hides met his gentle fingers, a thought came to mind. A thought born of an instinct he never knew he could possess. That thought was Novo. It wasn't simply a word that passed his mind, it was a desire. A terrible, horrible instinct to completely wipe from the Earth that which touched his outstretched hand. Novo, which means change in the Latin language, became a signal. A signal to activate his inborn ability of transforming the subject. Transform. Change. Once he thinks that word with that very instinctive desire, and once he has touched something, the living creature under his touch will violently turn itself inside out. He should have been relieved the demons were rendered no more, but all he could think of was the horrible images. The blood, the bones, the muscles and organs and tissues and fabrications of ligament and sinew all churning and melding, while raucous cries of unbearable agony shattered the heavens. Even more so became his fear and horror of his ability when he changed actual humans. The memories of his ability are ingrained in his brain for all eternity. So how does he manage to appear so normal? It's all a dream, he says. It's all a long, scary dream and someday he will wake up and all will be right with the world. Logan is a small, lean boy of eight years old. He has wide, curious eyes the color of dark amethysts and shaggy hair that reaches to his shoulders, the color of untainted snow. He's shy, usually hiding in the presence of others wether they mean him harm or not. He's quiet and not very outspoken. Imaginative and bright, Logan is always on the hunt for a good book to read. He likes books; the feel and weight of them and the stories they tell. He will often read them to himself every evening by the light of a campfire if he makes one. He also loves animals, and soon found a couple animals that were friendly enough to befriend. He's usually seen in the company of mice. He likes mice because they are small, curious, and shy; just like him. Logan finds the city to be one big adventure, a giant play world in his dreams, a place for playing and exploring and having fun. If someone won't attack him, he becomes recklessly trustworthy with all the innocence of a child. He's an easy target and he knows it, but he cannot help his nature. He has a very big, gentle heart, and he loves fiercley. If you hurt a friend of his, he will do everything in his power to hurt you back. He'd rather not fight though, that's why he is always running and hiding and keeping to himself. He'd rather not fight because he doesn't want to think of change. He doesn't want to think of Novo.
AFTERTHOUGHT: First appeared on my site Roanoke, then here, then Aisthesis. When he appeared here, I mixed his description with my character Isabelle from Guild of Shadows. Never rped him on Cryptic Truth.
AFTERTHOUGHT: First appeared on my site Roanoke, then here, then Aisthesis. When he appeared here, I mixed his description with my character Isabelle from Guild of Shadows. Never rped him on Cryptic Truth.
Akiyama Himura
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Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect Perfection! An actor, a seducer, a liar. Lured in by that charming grin, you'll soon come to the end of the line. The first Eclipsed in existence, Akiyama Himura has learned the art of trickery to a masterful extent. He knows of nothing except the desire to lure unsuspecting prey to the doors of the demons. He wants to kill. He wants to ensnare. Nothing can halt those evil pleasures, nothing. Pretty white hair. Entrancing blue eyes. Soft pale skin. A strong, lean, seventeen year old body. Perfect little tempter. He loves the thrill of the hunt. Yes, he calls it hunting. He weaves pretty little webs of lies to trap his victims in. Then once ensnared, he wraps them tightly in his embrace so they may not escape. And then they come. The demons. They come and feed on his prize, and he joins in their revelry. He was born for this. He was made for this. He was made for blood and death and pain. He was made to cause suffering. He loves his existence and hopes for no other. What could possibly be better than this after all? No moral conscience to hold him back. No fear or fright of mortality, even though he is yet mortal he has no fear of mortality. What would death bring? An adventure of course. So why fear himself or his existence? Why not give in to his carnal lusts? Why not kill himself? Death; makes him laugh. Not because it frightens him or he finds it funny. He laughs with death. He laughs at all the petty mortals who cling to their morals and their beliefs. The mortals who fear death and shy from danger and risk. They are so trapped, so blinded by their uniform circles of understanding that they cannot begin to grasp the freedom and reality that Akiyama has come to conceive. The reality that the eclipsed has come to conceive. What of Akiyama? The real one? Born and raised in Japan, Akiyama Himura began life relatively normal with his parents and his twin brother. At age five, both parents inexplicably died. The two boys were passed off from relative to relative for an odd number of years before living with their uncle when they were nine. Due to his abuse and threats, they ran away and stowed away on a plane. By the time they managed to escape the hold, Akiyama's brother had died of suffocation. Somewhat delirious, Akiyama merely stumbled away from the plane, leaving his brother's body behind. When he began to recuperate, the discovery was in the papers. Akiyama was forever scarred by the memory, and plagued with guilt for not giving his brother a proper burial himself. Akiyama lived off the streets in the strange city. They spoke a language he didn't know and were very strange people in general. Even the city was strange; full of water. He began to understand the language, and further came to understand he was in Venice, Italy. Being a child on the streets was hard. He begged for food and got in trouble with authorities. As he grew older, he became more adept at disguising himself so he could blend in with people. He dyed his hair different colors and stole clothes constantly so he would always appear differently. He became more cautious and wary of people as he grew older and learned more. He was in Italy illegally and could get in serious trouble, even worse if he ever got shipped back to his uncle. So he stayed to the back alleys and forsaken parts of Venice. Running. Always running. From tourists, from locals, from cops, from mafia, from everyone. He grew tired of running. Fed up, he hitchhiked across the country to Rome, a new city to blend into. He decided he would not run after this. Instead, he would fit in. Now much more fluent in Italian at age fourteen, he vouched for acting. He practiced constantly, starting mundane conversations with people, imitating actors he saw on TVs, imitating people he passed by. He acted because his life depended on it. With his acting, he snagged a job and an apartment. He began to further his acting when he began sitting in at poker games and other gambling sites. He played hard and well and earned a lot. Eventually his playing earned him a reputation, and jealousy was kindled. The mafia began hunting him down more adamantly, and even linked him to things he did back in Venice. Somehow, somehow, they discovered his secret of being an illegal. They decided to take matters into their own hands and kill him. But he was already gone. Akiyama fled Rome, hating himself for being careless and even more so that he was running again. With his money, he bought his way out of Italy and ended up in Dream Catcher Village, right around the start of the Demon Tide. Akiyama was tired. So tired. When the demons came for him, he ran to them. He asked them to end it. He was tired of looking over his shoulder, of always flinching at the slightest sound, always worrying he may have said something wrong, afraid someone was after him, terrified of the unknown, struggling to stay fed and warm and alive. He wished that fateful day when he was five had never happened. He wished his parents had never died. But wishes never come true. So he begged the demons to simply make it end. He wanted peace. He wanted death. But the demons did not give him death, they gave him life. They tore him down and reconstructed him into their little hunting dog. He will serve them to the end of his miserable existence. He will fetch them prey. He will serve them well. And he will laugh at humans who fear death. Laugh and despise them. Laugh and envy them. Death is the only thing he has ever wanted.
AFTERTHOUGHT: Had so many plans but never rped him.
AFTERTHOUGHT: Had so many plans but never rped him.
Castiel
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LOST LETTER WRITTEN BY EDGAR ALLEN POE. RECOVERED FROM AN UNUSED BANK VAULT IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND AND ADDRESSED TO A CERTAIN DR. JOSEPH E. SNODGRASS. THE RETRIEVABLE CONTENTS ARE AS FOLLOWS:
To My Dear Friend Dr. Snodgrass,
Forgive me my dear friend for coming to you with such terrible burdens as are my afflictions, but I cannot possibly condone myself to cease in telling you all that is happening to me. You think me mad, and rightfully so. I thought myself to have passed all sanity when those frightful words left my lips, but please, please my dear friend, do not stopper your ears to my voice. I beg you hearken and take into account what I am recording for you here in my letter. I pray you understand that I have never been insane. I have not the madness of hatters, though I am indisposed to become mad should this nightmare never cease to plague me. I am close to the end, my dear friend. It is only a matter of time, I know that now. So I write to you in earnest and with a pleading heart that you will be open to all that I shall now tell you.
It started three summers ago in June. You remember do you not? I daresay I hope you do. That day has stuck with me so long. It was the summer we journeyed to visit the strange ring of stones in Stonehendge. And you were so cross with Virginia for giving water to the horses right after our ride. Remember? I'm sure you will, as you shall remember it was the start of all these horrors.
I had gone off alone, don't you remember? I followed the winding road by that lovely green hill, the one I pointed out to you on our first ride. I followed that path all the way down to the bottom of the hill, and there it was. There was Stonehedge. I walked all the way there without stopping to take in the morning air and observe all that nature could unbind in such early hours of the day. I walked betwixt those stone columns, marveling at what hands could fashion such a creation. And there it was. Oh god, why did I have to see it! I'm sorry, dear friend, I write with passion and emotion. Do know I write sober.
I saw the writing on the rocks. I know now it must have been writing. Long, spindly, shadowed scrawl that dipped and weaved between the cracks and crevices. I saw that forbidden, unearthly writing and I felt drawn. Drawn to it! I felt an indescribable hold on my heart that dragged my soul screaming from within me and into those rocks. And a voice from somewhere dark and foul, for where else could such a voice come from, whispered to me quietly and mournfully. It whispered to me in a language I did not know but did not have to, for the meaning of those archaic words were so clear, engraved inside my very skull. Come! A terrible impulse swept over me and I threw myself to the rocks. All things rational abandoned me. I clawed at the rocks with my bare hands. I pounded and hit and clawed, as if I were digging into golden grains of sand and not solid, immovable earth. I do not remember much of that, for as I said, all things rational escaped me, and for a moment, my mind must have escaped me as well.
What I do remember is after my madness. I awoke to shadows and darkness. Fearful, I rose and surveyed my surroundings, but no eye could breach that oppressive black. I felt cold, hard earth under my hands and began crawling across it, hands and knees. I felt along the passage, my fingers grazing against stone. I perceived myself to be in some sort of cave or equally deep bowel of the earth. How I happened upon it I know not, though my confused mind began scrambling to put the pieces together and come to terms with a suitable explanation.
Then there was a soft, heavenly glow. So subtle and dim it truly was, but after the darkness it was more blinding than the sun. I shielded my gaze, almost afraid to look upon it. But momentarily my sight accustomed to the light. I looked about, relief flooding my body at the prospect I had found some form of exit to the surface. Those feelings despaired and died when I found that no such exit had opened to me. I had blundered into a large cavern. Before me was a pool of water most blue. The rock rippled with the shadows and reflections of that pool's odd light. Indeed, the pool was the source of light. I do not lie or make pretenses. I tell you, my dear friend, that pool was glowing with light.
And this my dear friend is where even I fall to confusion, for my memory of the dealings hereafter are so muddled and troubled that I can scarcely write them illegibly even now as I dare to recall it. In that strange pool, I found a boy. Not a child, but he seemed so like a boy that it is the only way I can place him. He had such a gentle face. A face that could not hold all the darkness that he really was. He was crouched in the middle of that pool. Crouched there, staring at me. He looked unnatural, but beautiful. I never describe living creatures as beautiful except perhaps the animals or my sweet wife, but he had such an unnatural beauty about him. He was strange, oh yes. His skin was pale like a rich lady and his face devoid of any conceivable blemish. His shoulders, the only other visible part of his body were disturbing. Flesh that was knotted and roped with scars. His ears were pointed. His hair was like lavendar. But his eyes! His frightful, terrible eyes. I shall never forget them. They were made of death. Death! I am rambling, I am talking foolishness. No, no I am not. I am frightened and passionate but I am not mad. I am only afraid. I cannot think of those eyes. Oh god, those horrible eyes. Those eyes wanted me. They wanted to tear me apart. Those eyes wanted to kill and they wanted to die. Death! Death! They were made of death I tell you!
And then he stood. He stood from the water and approached me. He was whispering to me. Whispering unending. A single word, no two, but they were one. His voice was so soft and sweet that I felt tears rise in me. That word. That word that has haunted me for so many years. "Nevermore" That is what he said. Over and over again. Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore. He kept whispering and approaching. He reached out to me as he came closer, and those hands; they ended in claws! The claws of beasts, the claws of things that are not men. And I was so frozen in fear I could only cower there, in awe and in pure, abject terror. My blood had turned cold, my heart refused to beat properly. He came to me! He came to me and, oh god, he-
THE REST OF THIS LETTER HAS BEEN LOST. MANY HISTORIANS HAVE LONG SINCE PROPOSED DIFFERENT THEORIES AS TO THE CREDIBILITY OF THIS LETTER. SOME SAY IT WAS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING OF AN UNPUBLISHED SHORT STORY. MOST BELIEVED HE HAD GONE MAD. THIS LETTER HAS BEEN STORED IN THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS AT THE DISPOSAL OF PROFESSORS AND STUDENTS FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.
THE FOLLOWING ARE FRAGMENTS OF A RECORD MADE BY JOHN AUBREY, EARLY ARCHAEOLOGIST OF STONEHENGE, AND HAS BEEN TRANSLATED INTO MORE MODERNIZED ENGLISH
FRAGMENT 1: [We have] lingered here now for three days and [not] a thing has been revealed unto us. If not for Roderick De Bois disappearance half a day ago, we might have had more luck... [the search] for him has been all in vain.
FRAGMENT 2: The runes here are undeniably an archaic work of Druidism. The runes tell of something secret beneath this place, but what I do not know. Roderick De Bois, now missing six days, is more adequate at deducing the runes than I.
FRAGMENT 3: Sir Edward II went missing this midday much the same as Roderick De Bois. The other members of our party are beginning to fear something is taking them.
FRAGMENT 4: They [Druids] came at dawn... all ghastly in their skulls and furs. I had never thought much of them, as I believed as many did that the Druids had long passed from this world. Our only interpreter was Percy Levane and he was awfully dreadful and slow at it. It became quite apparent however that the Druids were mad at us for being there... Discovered of a curse laid over this monument. I have recorded what they said by Percy's poor interpretations. A foul demon of darkness lurks within the stones. [The Druids] made us swear never to return to this place. Immediately we are to leave.
FRAGMENT 5: ... returned to the site and arrived at sun's setting. The Druids were all gathered about the circle of stones. Fires had been lit and I believed I was witnessing a ritual. There was someone standing in the middle. He stretched forth his hands, and even from where I was, I could see they were claws. The Druids began to shout in their tongue and waved their arms, and the creature screamed and moved about wildly... [when morning came] I went down to the place, careful not to step in the boundary of stones. There was blood soaking everything. All [the rocks] were crimson of color and still dripping though most began to dry. A bloody whip near the stones told all. They had summoned that thing and tortured it... the blood smelled strange... there was odd writing on the wall that was not Druid and I had not seen before.
FRAGMENT 6: [having returned] to my party [we] left at midday without Sir Edward II and Roderick De Bois. [I] cannot forget that terrible scene. This morning I thought I was bleeding from my eyes, but it must have been my imagination.
THIS ACCOUNT HAD NEVER BEEN SEEN UNTIL ITS RECOVERY IN 1998. JUDGING BY THE DATING TESTS, IT IS BELIEVED THIS WAS ONE OF AUBREY'S LAST ARCHAEOLOGICAL VISITS BEFORE HIS DEATH IN 1697. THE AUTHENTIC VALUE OF THIS DOCUMENT IS SUBJECT TO DEBATE. THIS DOCUMENT HAS NOT YET BEEN OFFICIALLY RELEASED TO THE PUBLIC AND IS KEPT IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD IN ENGLAND.
AFTERTHOUGHT: So many plans. Never rped him. Moved him to Aisthesis.
To My Dear Friend Dr. Snodgrass,
Forgive me my dear friend for coming to you with such terrible burdens as are my afflictions, but I cannot possibly condone myself to cease in telling you all that is happening to me. You think me mad, and rightfully so. I thought myself to have passed all sanity when those frightful words left my lips, but please, please my dear friend, do not stopper your ears to my voice. I beg you hearken and take into account what I am recording for you here in my letter. I pray you understand that I have never been insane. I have not the madness of hatters, though I am indisposed to become mad should this nightmare never cease to plague me. I am close to the end, my dear friend. It is only a matter of time, I know that now. So I write to you in earnest and with a pleading heart that you will be open to all that I shall now tell you.
It started three summers ago in June. You remember do you not? I daresay I hope you do. That day has stuck with me so long. It was the summer we journeyed to visit the strange ring of stones in Stonehendge. And you were so cross with Virginia for giving water to the horses right after our ride. Remember? I'm sure you will, as you shall remember it was the start of all these horrors.
I had gone off alone, don't you remember? I followed the winding road by that lovely green hill, the one I pointed out to you on our first ride. I followed that path all the way down to the bottom of the hill, and there it was. There was Stonehedge. I walked all the way there without stopping to take in the morning air and observe all that nature could unbind in such early hours of the day. I walked betwixt those stone columns, marveling at what hands could fashion such a creation. And there it was. Oh god, why did I have to see it! I'm sorry, dear friend, I write with passion and emotion. Do know I write sober.
I saw the writing on the rocks. I know now it must have been writing. Long, spindly, shadowed scrawl that dipped and weaved between the cracks and crevices. I saw that forbidden, unearthly writing and I felt drawn. Drawn to it! I felt an indescribable hold on my heart that dragged my soul screaming from within me and into those rocks. And a voice from somewhere dark and foul, for where else could such a voice come from, whispered to me quietly and mournfully. It whispered to me in a language I did not know but did not have to, for the meaning of those archaic words were so clear, engraved inside my very skull. Come! A terrible impulse swept over me and I threw myself to the rocks. All things rational abandoned me. I clawed at the rocks with my bare hands. I pounded and hit and clawed, as if I were digging into golden grains of sand and not solid, immovable earth. I do not remember much of that, for as I said, all things rational escaped me, and for a moment, my mind must have escaped me as well.
What I do remember is after my madness. I awoke to shadows and darkness. Fearful, I rose and surveyed my surroundings, but no eye could breach that oppressive black. I felt cold, hard earth under my hands and began crawling across it, hands and knees. I felt along the passage, my fingers grazing against stone. I perceived myself to be in some sort of cave or equally deep bowel of the earth. How I happened upon it I know not, though my confused mind began scrambling to put the pieces together and come to terms with a suitable explanation.
Then there was a soft, heavenly glow. So subtle and dim it truly was, but after the darkness it was more blinding than the sun. I shielded my gaze, almost afraid to look upon it. But momentarily my sight accustomed to the light. I looked about, relief flooding my body at the prospect I had found some form of exit to the surface. Those feelings despaired and died when I found that no such exit had opened to me. I had blundered into a large cavern. Before me was a pool of water most blue. The rock rippled with the shadows and reflections of that pool's odd light. Indeed, the pool was the source of light. I do not lie or make pretenses. I tell you, my dear friend, that pool was glowing with light.
And this my dear friend is where even I fall to confusion, for my memory of the dealings hereafter are so muddled and troubled that I can scarcely write them illegibly even now as I dare to recall it. In that strange pool, I found a boy. Not a child, but he seemed so like a boy that it is the only way I can place him. He had such a gentle face. A face that could not hold all the darkness that he really was. He was crouched in the middle of that pool. Crouched there, staring at me. He looked unnatural, but beautiful. I never describe living creatures as beautiful except perhaps the animals or my sweet wife, but he had such an unnatural beauty about him. He was strange, oh yes. His skin was pale like a rich lady and his face devoid of any conceivable blemish. His shoulders, the only other visible part of his body were disturbing. Flesh that was knotted and roped with scars. His ears were pointed. His hair was like lavendar. But his eyes! His frightful, terrible eyes. I shall never forget them. They were made of death. Death! I am rambling, I am talking foolishness. No, no I am not. I am frightened and passionate but I am not mad. I am only afraid. I cannot think of those eyes. Oh god, those horrible eyes. Those eyes wanted me. They wanted to tear me apart. Those eyes wanted to kill and they wanted to die. Death! Death! They were made of death I tell you!
And then he stood. He stood from the water and approached me. He was whispering to me. Whispering unending. A single word, no two, but they were one. His voice was so soft and sweet that I felt tears rise in me. That word. That word that has haunted me for so many years. "Nevermore" That is what he said. Over and over again. Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore. He kept whispering and approaching. He reached out to me as he came closer, and those hands; they ended in claws! The claws of beasts, the claws of things that are not men. And I was so frozen in fear I could only cower there, in awe and in pure, abject terror. My blood had turned cold, my heart refused to beat properly. He came to me! He came to me and, oh god, he-
THE REST OF THIS LETTER HAS BEEN LOST. MANY HISTORIANS HAVE LONG SINCE PROPOSED DIFFERENT THEORIES AS TO THE CREDIBILITY OF THIS LETTER. SOME SAY IT WAS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING OF AN UNPUBLISHED SHORT STORY. MOST BELIEVED HE HAD GONE MAD. THIS LETTER HAS BEEN STORED IN THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS AT THE DISPOSAL OF PROFESSORS AND STUDENTS FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.
THE FOLLOWING ARE FRAGMENTS OF A RECORD MADE BY JOHN AUBREY, EARLY ARCHAEOLOGIST OF STONEHENGE, AND HAS BEEN TRANSLATED INTO MORE MODERNIZED ENGLISH
FRAGMENT 1: [We have] lingered here now for three days and [not] a thing has been revealed unto us. If not for Roderick De Bois disappearance half a day ago, we might have had more luck... [the search] for him has been all in vain.
FRAGMENT 2: The runes here are undeniably an archaic work of Druidism. The runes tell of something secret beneath this place, but what I do not know. Roderick De Bois, now missing six days, is more adequate at deducing the runes than I.
FRAGMENT 3: Sir Edward II went missing this midday much the same as Roderick De Bois. The other members of our party are beginning to fear something is taking them.
FRAGMENT 4: They [Druids] came at dawn... all ghastly in their skulls and furs. I had never thought much of them, as I believed as many did that the Druids had long passed from this world. Our only interpreter was Percy Levane and he was awfully dreadful and slow at it. It became quite apparent however that the Druids were mad at us for being there... Discovered of a curse laid over this monument. I have recorded what they said by Percy's poor interpretations. A foul demon of darkness lurks within the stones. [The Druids] made us swear never to return to this place. Immediately we are to leave.
FRAGMENT 5: ... returned to the site and arrived at sun's setting. The Druids were all gathered about the circle of stones. Fires had been lit and I believed I was witnessing a ritual. There was someone standing in the middle. He stretched forth his hands, and even from where I was, I could see they were claws. The Druids began to shout in their tongue and waved their arms, and the creature screamed and moved about wildly... [when morning came] I went down to the place, careful not to step in the boundary of stones. There was blood soaking everything. All [the rocks] were crimson of color and still dripping though most began to dry. A bloody whip near the stones told all. They had summoned that thing and tortured it... the blood smelled strange... there was odd writing on the wall that was not Druid and I had not seen before.
FRAGMENT 6: [having returned] to my party [we] left at midday without Sir Edward II and Roderick De Bois. [I] cannot forget that terrible scene. This morning I thought I was bleeding from my eyes, but it must have been my imagination.
THIS ACCOUNT HAD NEVER BEEN SEEN UNTIL ITS RECOVERY IN 1998. JUDGING BY THE DATING TESTS, IT IS BELIEVED THIS WAS ONE OF AUBREY'S LAST ARCHAEOLOGICAL VISITS BEFORE HIS DEATH IN 1697. THE AUTHENTIC VALUE OF THIS DOCUMENT IS SUBJECT TO DEBATE. THIS DOCUMENT HAS NOT YET BEEN OFFICIALLY RELEASED TO THE PUBLIC AND IS KEPT IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD IN ENGLAND.
AFTERTHOUGHT: So many plans. Never rped him. Moved him to Aisthesis.
Malachi "Aries" Rowan Blackstock
![Picture](https://www.editmysite.com/editor/images/na.png)
One of the Unsanctified Five
Malachi Rowan Blackstock "Aries"
Trinity Leah Woodfield "Athena"
Eoin Vincent Alcott "Poseidon"
Rasmus Spencer Tracy "Hades"
Journey Gaius St. Clause "Morpheus"
AFTERTHOUGHT: An idea for a weird gang of failed experiments with Grecian god names. Never finished them.
Rangiku Foxtare
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/_6577559.jpg)
He's a thousand and one things but none of them at all. He's complex but so easy to read. He is and was and never will be and always will. He loves and hates and yearns and fears. He existed then but not tomorrow because he's dead, dead I tell you! But he was born yesterday and he can't remember where the time goes. He's so old now. He's always waiting for his children to come home but he doesn't want children when he grows up because he's not ready to grow up and now he waits for it all to end. A deathbed. A hospital. Oh god! What's that sound? Classical music in a music box with a broken latch. A door that won't open. Silence. Sound! Suddenly. Fire and water and the loss of life. Tears falling like rain while a ship sails over a sea of sand and the children gather around a bonfire where a witch shrieks her last breaths into the sunset of morning. And vaguely, so slowly, a cat comes creeping down a mountain where everything drowns in a pond made of oil that no one can forget. All sinking down to ashen graves in the end. He lives in the middle of nowhere and has no neighbors in the center of a crowded city where there's no privacy, and that filthy apartment he lives in is so cramped with the lady down the hall and her fifty cats and his condo needs new wallpaper. He hates cats but he loves them so much. He owns two, thirty, four, one. It died yesterday. He just bought it an hour ago. He's allergic to cats. No he isn't. Deathly allergic. He died from a cat allergy. His grandma died of a cat allergy. No she didn't. His grandma is still alive. She lives in Mexico and makes cookies and everyday she walks to the bookstore near the Eiffel tower to buy the latest doilies that she made, she can't even make doillies, she knits on her porch in Italy because she doesn't like omelets without cheese and he never met his grandmother. He killed his grandmother. His mother was so upset and she was in prison for murdering his little sister while she bikes everywhere because she's into health and fitness she was never pregnant with a new baby, but she hates frozen meals and snores while she sleeps. She carries a knife. It's blue like the sky, the sky, a park a swing and he swings on the swing while a man in an orange coat with rotten teeth bangs his head on a wall and there's no sound because the world has ended in fire and the people are melting and there's a cloud in the sky that looks like an umbrella. Oh god the people are melting! And he drinks and drinks the pain away and he can hardly make the proper incision to save the melting man under his quivering hands. Old hands, they're so young and pockmarked and wrinkled and black and white and black and he's in a field picking flowers. And there's men all around him singing a song he knows but he's never heard it before. They sing themselves to sleep, locked in cages where he can't reach them. Unreachable. Come children. Let him carve you up again. And he dances with the lady in the red ball gown with the black mask covering her face. And she's beautiful, so beautiful. And she spins and twirls and dances and the candles light her eyes till she's naught but a sparkling gem for him to hold in his arms and immortalize in his heart. His eyes! His own! What color were they? No mirror. No world to behold. There's dust everywhere, a house never used, always, lights. See that. It's gray. Gray is like the train that he leaped in front of to end the day, and he crawls back up to see sunlight filtering through blinds of a tiny shack on a beach, and there's nothing but houses around him. No sound can silence that. And he laughs because he hates her. He beats her over and over again while they roll on the bedroom floor and until her face is black and purple and red and he mauls that beautiful face because he hates her so much after he broke that vase while a mockingbird cried out and he shot the old man so he could have money and live another day. And he stands in the doorway and cries because the knife he holds is red. RED! He made it red. It's all over his arms. Oh god, please end it. So beautiful! Oh please, don't make it end. Let him see blood and blood forever and he laughs in the face of a child eating mud because their's no food. And they huddle under moth eaten blankets while icicles grow round the foot of their bed and they curl into their mother's stiff body, she already died of the cold, and all his little siblings turn to stone one by one till the only heart beating is his and he waits and waits for his father to come and take them away from this cold house. His father is coming, coming for him, coming to beat the life out of him. So he huddles under the stairs and waits, and his breath catches in his throat and they're at a table, laughing and talking and passing the food around and then it's so loud and noisy and where are his car keys? They're always in his right pocket. He's left handed and lost his left hand in the war when he was overseas scuba diving in the coral reef, Australia, with kangaroos and then the zookeeper tells him to leave while he wonders where his mom is and they're all going to the fair but he hates the roller coasters so he eats cotton candy while watching a 3D movie and then there's a giant bat flying down from a cave roof and he trips and falls but he's alright so they ring another doorbell and say trick or treat to get candy and they're on the bus to Disney. He's loved, unloved, unwanted, hated admired. Oh he's so pretty and smiling and he's all crying and lying bleeding in an alley and no one will save him. No one will save him. He failed them... failed them all. He coughs up blood and struggles to breathe, and the air in his lungs is foul. He breathes in blood. It bruns. It burns. An no one comes to see the boy drifting away. No one but the sky as it breaks down and cries for him, its cold tears showering him in pity and ice.
He exists.
He can't remember his name.
He wrote it on his arm.
Carved it in with a knife.
So he can always check and see.
Every red stripe he makes helps him remember.
Who he is.
How old he is.
Where he comes from.
What he's doing here.
He can't remember.
Because he remembers everything else.
Because he remembers what everyone ELSE remembers.
And nothing more.
AFTERTHOUGHT: Originally for Cryptic Truth then moved to Mercury Boarding School. RPed him once as a marine.
He exists.
He can't remember his name.
He wrote it on his arm.
Carved it in with a knife.
So he can always check and see.
Every red stripe he makes helps him remember.
Who he is.
How old he is.
Where he comes from.
What he's doing here.
He can't remember.
Because he remembers everything else.
Because he remembers what everyone ELSE remembers.
And nothing more.
AFTERTHOUGHT: Originally for Cryptic Truth then moved to Mercury Boarding School. RPed him once as a marine.