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| Sacrifical Lamb: Act 2 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sep 8 2009, 07:47 PM (60 Views) | |
| Rippah Da Kid | Sep 8 2009, 07:47 PM Post #1 |
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Don't CoC Jock!
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…Origins…The rise or beginning of a location, culture, or person. The origin not only chronicles the beginning of an uprising but also the derivation. Usually origins are held dear to the hearts of the self-righteous lineage that it gave birth too, these souls usually only utter sentiments of pride, worship, and prosperity for the future when speaking of their origins. For you see the way in which a culture or bloodline rises from the pits of obscurity into the ranks of the prosperous, is exactly how that prospective culture of bloodline will be conceived by history and mankind. Those bloodlines that rose through goodwill and lawful notions will forever be immortalized in such a manner, while those that rose through tyranny and corruption, will be shunned as dishonorable or wretched. Origin and lineage is what makes cultures what they are, whether it is by social status or class, origin is what both drives and holds back nations of people…and also is the reason for Markill current situation. Because Markill was forced into a world of prejudice and judgment through the test tubes and gene swapping of mad men, he would be forever destined to walk the path of the disgraceful and deplorable. Because his origin started in a laboratory in which horrid experiments produced debaucheries and fiends that marred human morality and history, he would forever be disdained by the world as such a monster or less than human. Because of this outlook the world had on Markill and clones altogether he would always be hunted or feared by someone organization or culture, in returned his heart was filled with loathing…an hate so grand that it could only stint from one’s legacy. Markill’s eyesight was marred by fatigue and pain; through his eyes the forest seemed to wear a thick veil of murkiness, which made everything in view blurred. Markill posture was one of anguish and discomfort it pained him to even ‘stand’ firm in his kneeling position. It would seem that the Hidden Rapture technique coupled with the fatigued stricken battles with both Fox and Blue, had taken a toll of extraordinary proportions on the broken swordsmen of Nibelheim. The autumn winds blew gentle throughout the forest picking up fallen foliage along its path, it affectionately caressed the face and neck of Markill, and he scoffed: “Even the winds posses more power, than myself.” Markill managed to force his blade deep into the moist soil of the forest and force himself to a standing position, even while using ‘The Rapture’ as a crutch he found it incredible hard to stand on his own power. Once he accomplished the excruciating feat he manage to again lock eyes on Blue, the enormous assassin that he had not only moments ago slain in graceful fashion. Blue’s face was hauntingly adorned by a smile of pure fulfillment, just as Fox, before him. It would seem that Markill had more in common with these assassins than just an detrimental lust for battle…it would seem they all found peace in a ‘warriors’ death. “In death there is closure and rest, but only in a warrior’s death can one find true peace.” “Look, a wounded animal.” A pompous voice floated through the autumn air into the ears of Markill, filled with mockery and cynicism. Markill managed to look towards the voice and noticed the remaining squadron closing in on him. “You should know that a beast fights more ferociously, when wounded.” Empty words that fell on death ears, Markill was in no condition to make idle threats let alone see through to them, he had all but surrendered and there was nothing he could do about it. “Raven, retrieve the specimen…with force if needed.” The voice was muffled and somber and was only answered by one of the soldiers stepping towards Markill. This particular assailant was different from the original assailants entirely, from the build of the body down to the very attire that adorned it. The body of this assassin was feminine and very curvy, fit for a goddess or an angelic being of equally unmatched beauty. Her face was made of pure ivory softer than any silk among these lands, adorned with rose petal lips that seemed softer than her cloud like skin, she was truly elegant. Her eyes were marred by the hideous mako glow, but even that didn’t stop the resonating beauty in them, her pupils were deep pools of blue that one could easily get lost in, but to drown in them was a fate of pure bliss and ecstasy. Highlighting an already flawless visage was her long flowing hair, which shimmered in the lunar skies like a flawless jewel. Besides her inconceivable gorgeousness it was her outfit that made her particularly standout. She wore a navy blue body suit, which hugged her skin like a newborn to its mother, each inch of fabric seem to punctuate the tantalizing curves her body posses. One doesn’t need to be a scholar to see the irony in this. “You gonna fight, hun?” Markill tried raising his blade towards the advancing beauty, to no avail his strength was exhausted and his body frail. The woman then put her arms around the shoulders of Markill, peering into his eyes, Markill became lost in her embrace he couldn’t fight her grasp even if he had his original strength. “This won’t hurt at all, sugar.” Her voice was soothing and flirtatious; it almost put Markill into a state of tranquility. With that she removed one of her arms from around Markill and down to her hip and in a quick and violent motion plunged it deep into the abdomen of Markill! An inaudible gasp escaped Markill’s mouth; his pain stricken visage was horrible adorned by a gaping mouth with saliva escaping it. Markill seem to double over onto Raven’s arm as her fist cratered itself into his torso almost lifting him off of his feet. Markill grasped his forearm in his hands trying to relieve himself of her attack, but he might as well have been trying to remove the water from the ocean..it was impossible at this point. Soon a small humming could be heard coming from Raven, followed by a loud crackling noise as if electricity was running though her body. Markill convulsed viciously before finally succumbing to the loss of consciousness. |
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| Rippah Da Kid | Sep 11 2009, 12:04 AM Post #2 |
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Don't CoC Jock!
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…Relief… The lighting or relinquishing of something, oppressive, excruciating, or disheartening; this is what all souls long for. Relief often grants situations of tranquility and true happiness, which otherwise would only be illusions and witch hunt for the naďve and ignorant. From birth the world destines millions and millions of souls to lives of hardship and heartache, with intentions free of prejudice or favoritism, fate delivers one misery after another…until most souls are broken and cast down into the depths of hopelessness and desperation. Although like a beacon of light leading one to the promise lands, some find sweet relief and also find themselves lifted out of the bleakness that is despair. Unfortunately relief is a rarity in these times; one can go their whole lives without committing a deed of wickedness or possessing a single thought of hatred and still not feel the calming embrace of relief. Besides the scarcity of such a valuable commodity, some even questions its true essence, for some it is love, for others peace, but for Markill it is simply…death. For warriors like him the only true peace that exists is in the afterlife, Markill believes that the only way to truly be embraced by real peace is to surrender all that influences conflict. Lust, ambitions, love, and greed all make up the human psyche and each one of these selfish emotions will ultimately lead to the downfall of mankind. History is littered and marred by confrontations and meaningless massacres deriving from human emotions. That’s why Markill believes the only path to peace…is death. “Kyru come on! Your gonna be the last one to the park!” A familiar voice called out to Markill, it possessed the lightheartedness and innocents that only a young child could have. The voice, pure and kind brought on a soothing sensation in the heart of Markill, it brought on the euphoria of a past more happier time for the lone swordsman. Upon opening his eyes he noticed a world distant and forgotten to him, a world in which he was embraced and respected. The land that he found himself casted into was none other than Nibelheim and the time, was a time of peace and joyous experiences. After looking around the lands awestricken Markill finally caught glimpse of the owner of the voice calling out to him. “Max?” Just thinking of his soft angelic visage filled Markill with an emotion that could almost convey happiness or even bliss; he was the only positive aspect to the dreary existence of Kyru. Without him Kyru was nothing but a failed experiment… a child of test tubes and syringes he was a soulless vessel he might as well have been a cadaver. But this was no mere recollection, Markill could see him, feel him, and interact with his brother of old. His short locks of ebony, his simple brown pupils which seem to posse no ill-will of any kind. This was indeed the same Max that endured the same hardship of being a clone as Markill, the same boy who through it all chose friendship over popularity and supported his comrade. “Max, by the goddess is that you?” Although max didn’t answer Markill knew it was his closest and dearest friend, no brother so like any sibling that had been vacant of their loved one’s embrace, he rushed towards him eager to have it. As he reached touching distance of Max he simple smiled and through his arms around him, this was the first time in years Markill had felt such happiness and belonging, squeezing Max’s torso as if someone would try and pilfer him from his warm embrace. Emotions of harmony and exhilaration flooded the withering soul of Markill; the overwhelming feelings escaped his body in forms of tears, joyously flowing down his cheeks which for the first time were embraced by a non-cynical smile. “Kyru, I have something to tell you.” The soft spoken words of Max floated into the ears of Markill giving him reassurance that this was indeed real. Markill finally relinquished his vice-like grip of worship allowing Max to finish his statement. “It is all our destinies …” The statement was cryptic as much as it was daunting. “What are you speaking of?” Markill responded with a voice overwhelmed with bewilderment, he grabbed hold of Max forcing him to retreat a few feet so that he could look into his eyes. To his great disdain Max’s once angelic visage was now marred by grotesque lacerations and burns. Markill let out in inaudible gasp before retreating backwards and onto the ground below. Unfortunately this horrid event would grow more horrendous and Max’s body burst into flames, which intern sent Markill into a frenzied state of mind of both shock and grief. “What ya screaming about, Mark?” Markill urgently snapped his head around and fixated it on yet another angelic visage belonging to one of his comrades, this time it was Edgar Drajoon of Wutai. Markill quickly retreated using his hands and knees to crawl away from Edgar. “What? You had another one of your violent episodes? I swear you scream loud enough to wake the dead, it’s amazing you don’t wake yourself.” Edgar spoke with a calming and playful tone and a reassurance that this was indeed a recurring event. Markill finally rose to his feet and brought his emotions in check, it was a bit embarrassed but relieved all the same. “It was so real, Edgar.” Edgar looked at Markill with a perked curiosity, but masking such a inconsiderate feeling was his concerned eyes: “What happen?” Markill took in a deep breath and found himself leaning against a large oak tree, in his frantic scuffle he hadn’t even noticed that he and Edgar were outside. “I was back home and ran into a friend from my past. He spoke in his same voice but not with the same manner, the manner in which he spoke was frightening and mysterious. He said that ‘It is all our destinies.’ And then he perished.” Edgar looked at him with a visage of support and reassurance: “It is as you say: ‘The path of the sword will surely lead you to death or desolation.” Markill stared at Edgar with eyes of uneasiness and confusion, before he could even utter a word of response, Edgar pointed towards a area a few yards from the both of them. Upon looking Markill noticed the skies were grotesquely painted with a veil of scarlet, as if the heavens had been wounded and bled out unto the mortal world below. The grounds of Wutai were littered with bodies broken and cast aside by the realm of the living. The roads flooded with the crimson embrace of blood as if a war had been fought recently. Even the houses weren’t sparred the taint of the bloodshed, as each home was doused in the infamous liquid of life. This was death and …desolation… |
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| [-Rose-] | May 12 2011, 02:43 PM Post #3 |
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Crazy Dhampire Nekomata
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Fare thee well Children of Crisis, we will miss you |
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6:29 PM Jul 10