Post by Kyle on May 29, 2016 13:07:05 GMT -6
Lightning danced amidst the Chicago skyline as the Gods warred above while man fought below. At least, their war had ceased for the night, like the storm would by morn, waiting until the stars realigned themselves across from another seven days thenceforth. Indeed, like a storm, though one that was predictable, dangerous. If one knew just where to stand they would avoid the storm’s tendrils. Then, they could simply watch and enjoy the beauty of it until death stole them through one of its countless other means.
Then there was he who walked in the middle of it all, unafraid, daring the Gods to strike him just so they would know who held the real power in this world, this city, this place. He, if he so desired, could wield the storm. He could declare where the storm struck and it would. As the cliché goes, a god among men. Even that, though, failed to capture the strength he had gained when he gave into time and space, served it with his talents, his abilities.
The swordsman had been the first to experience just what he had become in his time away. But then again, what was time in the eyes of one who served time itself? He spent but a moment, a breath, in the master’s presence. The swordsman had devoted his whole life to the furtherance of all that was good in the world. Yet he walked the streets of Chicago and the swordsman would never walk again.
A funny thing, this concept of time, existence.
Nathan was six blocks from The Warehouse when the creature found him. The air and empty space was like an ocean and it an eel, curling and twisting around him while he continued to walk down the street. He walked against the traffic, their headlights illuminating him when the lightning above did not, but never once did the light pierce the dark creature encompassing him likes vines in the forest. Nor did they see the creature; man often saw what they wanted to see and death was the thing they ignored the most in all of its various forms.
A slimy voice rang out in Nathan’s mind. The child escaped tonight, disappeared. He did not see us, but it is aware, cautious. A pause. He fears.
As his adversaries had already known, the Chronovore was a tool, a weapon of the Dark Master. But to say it was mindless, Nathan would not go as far to say that. They were wanton, quick to destroy, wrought death with but a touch. Yet there was a semblance of serious understand if not the ability to process. The Dark Master wielded them and, by extension, he did as well. This creature had been tasked to seek out a Kid. No, the Kid. It did not matter that it assumed Kid was a label, not a name. It was but a hound tracking the proverbial rabbit. When it finally cornered the prey, it would raise the alarm, nothing more. Nathan was the hunter, not it, and only he would administer the killing blow.
Because fate, destiny, demanded it.
“Keep searching,” he replied simply because complexity would only be lost on the creature. Its disappearance was the only acknowledgement necessary. He was but a man again watching the streets of Chicago. Deception at its finest. He had forfeited mortality, morality a long, long time ago. And with it he achieved the ascension to a greater, more fulfilling place.
Following Nathan would have yielded nothing as he turned onto the side street because, a moment later, he had disappeared like the Chronovore. It was time for his own war to begin.
Bran Castle towered over the Romanian countryside as a monument of an earlier, bloodier time in the state’s history. Oft associated with both Vlad the Impaler, who ruled the kingdom in the 15th century and Dracula, the spectre who haunted the minds of man even today, this castle had been a museum and a landmark. Now, it was a home, a fortress once more preparing for a war against a foe more powerful and dangerous than the Ottomans. A fascinating story that alone could entertain many a listener, but for the sake of brevity, cling to this simple truth: several Romanian officials were some of the most wealthiest men and women in the world today and they wouldn’t dare tell a soul where they had come across this fortune lest they suffer the same fate by the new Vlad in town.
With that said, we open to Nathan von Liebert standing in a spacious, stone foyer with eyes focused on a tapestry that covered the entirety of the back wall. It depicted the Night attack of Targoviste, led by the original Vlad, against the Ottomans. The cavalry charged at the burning tents of the Turks from multiple directions, embracing the fire, being enveloped by it, as they rode to victory. When Nathan turned to face the camera, the same fire danced behind his eyes before a moment before fading into a cool seriousness.
“It is often speculated why man thinks it fitting for combat and death to be simulated on a grand stage. Wars were not prevented by this, only supplemented. Those who survived the one and returned home had to endure it once more from the spectator’s position. I wish I could say this was a new concept, but instead it is one of the most lasting qualities of this pitiful species who considered themselves supreme. What was once gladiators were now football players. Or boxers. Or even wrestlers. And for what? To give the common fool a chance, a moment, to stand there and hoped blood was spilt their way, stain their clothes but not their existence.”
A long pause.
“It is a lust, a longing, for man to stroke the fighting spirit within him, to achieve the climatic ecstasy at the expense of another. Fighting, to the common soul, had become the pornography of conflict and opposition.”
Nathan could only shake his head.
“And these fighters, these warriors, have accepted this. They lie on their backs and fall to their knees for the sake of gold and glory destined for only one. The rest, they have whored themselves out for, what, to be a part of something monumental, something bigger?” Nathan holds his right, red hand to his ear, as if listening to a far off noise. “Listen, just listen, to the outcry, the sucking in of breath, the blowing out of nostrils. Even now, when their chance at fame has already been lost, they still prostrate and prostitute for the scraps that fall from the winner’s circular table.”
Nathan lets his hand fall, steel in his voice and ice in his eyes.
“And there I stand amidst it all with a simple message and a simpler plan of execution: I shall bow to no one.”
A slight, unnecessary nod to affirm the obvious.
“Because I have not forgotten the man I became when I sought the pleasure that this lifestyle brought a man. I had fought for the same things the cretins here fought for and, unlike so many of them, I achieved it. I had known the gold and glory and it had known me. For a short, short time. Because it is all fleeting, these pleasures oh so temporary. Like trying to measure one’s worth by the shifting sands. It’s there and then it’s not and somehow that corresponds to the mark one has left in the world. No longer, I say. The only sand that moves beneath me is the sand I move. And that goes the same way for the men and women, whether they know and remember me or not, in my time here.”
A pause.
“Granted, the opponent I’m facing this week probably understood very little out what I was saying right there. He is, to put it bluntly, shit beneath my boot. He was but a spectator until recently, I suspect, a biker who had grown tired of jerking off to the ability of the real warriors here and thought, somehow, he was fit to try it out himself. An amateur, a virgin in the world of conflict and opposition. At least, that was until his opponents fucked him up last week and have left everyone wondering if he could even pull it together to compete this week. Well this, I promise you, is something even Burn Out will understand and something there will be no doubt of by anyone else.
I will win this week.”
Behind Nathan two figures appear, short-haired and wearing dark, woolen robes.
“I could expand upon that statement, but it would be a waste of my breath. You’re a sheep who thought they’d turn the tables and don wolves clothing. But you forget this: you’re still a fucking sheep. A lamb that has already leapt off the sacrificial table, escaping by the skin of your teeth. But come Sunday, you’re time is up. Our match will not be a show that’ll leave the fans erect in any standing ovation.”
Nathan looks as if he had more to say, but before then, he turned to the figures behind him and points to the tapestry.
“Burn it out back, I don’t want to see it any longer.”
With that, Nathan returned his attention back to the camera.
“No, they’ll only wonder if you’ll ever stand again.” A soft pause, devoid of emotion. “I’ll see you Sunday, Hoss.”
The scene fades out a moment later with Nathan von Liebert standing center stage with the stone wall framing him in the background.
Then there was he who walked in the middle of it all, unafraid, daring the Gods to strike him just so they would know who held the real power in this world, this city, this place. He, if he so desired, could wield the storm. He could declare where the storm struck and it would. As the cliché goes, a god among men. Even that, though, failed to capture the strength he had gained when he gave into time and space, served it with his talents, his abilities.
The swordsman had been the first to experience just what he had become in his time away. But then again, what was time in the eyes of one who served time itself? He spent but a moment, a breath, in the master’s presence. The swordsman had devoted his whole life to the furtherance of all that was good in the world. Yet he walked the streets of Chicago and the swordsman would never walk again.
A funny thing, this concept of time, existence.
Nathan was six blocks from The Warehouse when the creature found him. The air and empty space was like an ocean and it an eel, curling and twisting around him while he continued to walk down the street. He walked against the traffic, their headlights illuminating him when the lightning above did not, but never once did the light pierce the dark creature encompassing him likes vines in the forest. Nor did they see the creature; man often saw what they wanted to see and death was the thing they ignored the most in all of its various forms.
A slimy voice rang out in Nathan’s mind. The child escaped tonight, disappeared. He did not see us, but it is aware, cautious. A pause. He fears.
As his adversaries had already known, the Chronovore was a tool, a weapon of the Dark Master. But to say it was mindless, Nathan would not go as far to say that. They were wanton, quick to destroy, wrought death with but a touch. Yet there was a semblance of serious understand if not the ability to process. The Dark Master wielded them and, by extension, he did as well. This creature had been tasked to seek out a Kid. No, the Kid. It did not matter that it assumed Kid was a label, not a name. It was but a hound tracking the proverbial rabbit. When it finally cornered the prey, it would raise the alarm, nothing more. Nathan was the hunter, not it, and only he would administer the killing blow.
Because fate, destiny, demanded it.
“Keep searching,” he replied simply because complexity would only be lost on the creature. Its disappearance was the only acknowledgement necessary. He was but a man again watching the streets of Chicago. Deception at its finest. He had forfeited mortality, morality a long, long time ago. And with it he achieved the ascension to a greater, more fulfilling place.
Following Nathan would have yielded nothing as he turned onto the side street because, a moment later, he had disappeared like the Chronovore. It was time for his own war to begin.
Bran Castle towered over the Romanian countryside as a monument of an earlier, bloodier time in the state’s history. Oft associated with both Vlad the Impaler, who ruled the kingdom in the 15th century and Dracula, the spectre who haunted the minds of man even today, this castle had been a museum and a landmark. Now, it was a home, a fortress once more preparing for a war against a foe more powerful and dangerous than the Ottomans. A fascinating story that alone could entertain many a listener, but for the sake of brevity, cling to this simple truth: several Romanian officials were some of the most wealthiest men and women in the world today and they wouldn’t dare tell a soul where they had come across this fortune lest they suffer the same fate by the new Vlad in town.
With that said, we open to Nathan von Liebert standing in a spacious, stone foyer with eyes focused on a tapestry that covered the entirety of the back wall. It depicted the Night attack of Targoviste, led by the original Vlad, against the Ottomans. The cavalry charged at the burning tents of the Turks from multiple directions, embracing the fire, being enveloped by it, as they rode to victory. When Nathan turned to face the camera, the same fire danced behind his eyes before a moment before fading into a cool seriousness.
“It is often speculated why man thinks it fitting for combat and death to be simulated on a grand stage. Wars were not prevented by this, only supplemented. Those who survived the one and returned home had to endure it once more from the spectator’s position. I wish I could say this was a new concept, but instead it is one of the most lasting qualities of this pitiful species who considered themselves supreme. What was once gladiators were now football players. Or boxers. Or even wrestlers. And for what? To give the common fool a chance, a moment, to stand there and hoped blood was spilt their way, stain their clothes but not their existence.”
A long pause.
“It is a lust, a longing, for man to stroke the fighting spirit within him, to achieve the climatic ecstasy at the expense of another. Fighting, to the common soul, had become the pornography of conflict and opposition.”
Nathan could only shake his head.
“And these fighters, these warriors, have accepted this. They lie on their backs and fall to their knees for the sake of gold and glory destined for only one. The rest, they have whored themselves out for, what, to be a part of something monumental, something bigger?” Nathan holds his right, red hand to his ear, as if listening to a far off noise. “Listen, just listen, to the outcry, the sucking in of breath, the blowing out of nostrils. Even now, when their chance at fame has already been lost, they still prostrate and prostitute for the scraps that fall from the winner’s circular table.”
Nathan lets his hand fall, steel in his voice and ice in his eyes.
“And there I stand amidst it all with a simple message and a simpler plan of execution: I shall bow to no one.”
A slight, unnecessary nod to affirm the obvious.
“Because I have not forgotten the man I became when I sought the pleasure that this lifestyle brought a man. I had fought for the same things the cretins here fought for and, unlike so many of them, I achieved it. I had known the gold and glory and it had known me. For a short, short time. Because it is all fleeting, these pleasures oh so temporary. Like trying to measure one’s worth by the shifting sands. It’s there and then it’s not and somehow that corresponds to the mark one has left in the world. No longer, I say. The only sand that moves beneath me is the sand I move. And that goes the same way for the men and women, whether they know and remember me or not, in my time here.”
A pause.
“Granted, the opponent I’m facing this week probably understood very little out what I was saying right there. He is, to put it bluntly, shit beneath my boot. He was but a spectator until recently, I suspect, a biker who had grown tired of jerking off to the ability of the real warriors here and thought, somehow, he was fit to try it out himself. An amateur, a virgin in the world of conflict and opposition. At least, that was until his opponents fucked him up last week and have left everyone wondering if he could even pull it together to compete this week. Well this, I promise you, is something even Burn Out will understand and something there will be no doubt of by anyone else.
I will win this week.”
Behind Nathan two figures appear, short-haired and wearing dark, woolen robes.
“I could expand upon that statement, but it would be a waste of my breath. You’re a sheep who thought they’d turn the tables and don wolves clothing. But you forget this: you’re still a fucking sheep. A lamb that has already leapt off the sacrificial table, escaping by the skin of your teeth. But come Sunday, you’re time is up. Our match will not be a show that’ll leave the fans erect in any standing ovation.”
Nathan looks as if he had more to say, but before then, he turned to the figures behind him and points to the tapestry.
“Burn it out back, I don’t want to see it any longer.”
With that, Nathan returned his attention back to the camera.
“No, they’ll only wonder if you’ll ever stand again.” A soft pause, devoid of emotion. “I’ll see you Sunday, Hoss.”
The scene fades out a moment later with Nathan von Liebert standing center stage with the stone wall framing him in the background.
